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1 


V  • 


V  . 


COPYRIGHT,  1907 
BY  SHERWIN  CODY 


CONTENTS. 


Burns,  Life .  9 

Love  Songs. 

My  Nanie,  0 .  37 

On  Cessnock’s  Banks .  38 

Mary  Morison .  40 

Now  Westlin  Winds . 41 

Green  Grow  the  Rashes,  0 .  43 

The  Lament .  44 

Flow  Gently,  Sweet  Afton .  46 

The  Highland  Lassie .  48 

A  Prayer  for  Mary .  49 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  May? .  51 

Tho’  Cruel  Fate .  51 

Written  on  the  Blank  Leaf  (of  a  copy  of  his 

poems)  .  51 

Bonie  Doon .  52 

Where,  braving  angry  winter’s  storms .  53 

My  Peggy’s  Face .  53 

Banks  of  Devon .  54 

I  love  my  Jean .  55 

I  hae  a  wife  of  my  ain .  56 

My  Bonie  Mary . 56 

To  Mary  in  Heaven .  56 

fThe  Blue- Eyed  Lassie .  59 


Tibbie  Dunbar .  60 

John  Anderson  my  Jo .  60 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands .  61 

The  Bonie  Wee  Thing .  61 

Farewell  to  Nancy .  62 

My  Nannie’s  Awa .  63 

Bonie  Lesley .  64 

My  Wife ’s  a  Winsome  Wee  Thing .  65 

Highland  Mary .  66 

Duncan  Gray .  67 

Galla  Water .  68 

O,  whistle,  an’  I’ll  come  to  ye,  my  lad .  69 

The  Lovely  Lass  of  Inverness .  70 

A  Red,  Red  Rose .  71 

Lassie  wi’  the  Lint-white  Locks .  71 

Hey  for  a  Lass  wi’  a  Tocher .  72 

O,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast .  73 

Coming  Through  the  Rye .  74 

Other  Songs. 

M’Pherson’s  Farewell .  75 

Auld  Lang  Syne .  76 

O,  Willie  brewed  a  peck  o’  maut .  77 

The  Deil ’s  awa  wi’  th’  Exciseman .  78 

Bannockburn  .  79 

Contented  wi’  little .  80 

The  Man’s  the  Gowd  for  a’  That .  81 


Longer  Poems. 

Holy  Willie’s  Prayer .  83 

To  a  Mouse .  87 

Man  Was  Made  to  Mourn .  89 

The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night .  92 

Address  to  the  Deil .  99 

The  Auld  Farmer’s  Salutation  to  his  Mare .  104 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy .  108 

The  Twa  Dogs .  110 

Address  to  the  Unco  Guid .  118 

Tam  o’  Shanter .  121 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2020  with  funding  from 
University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


https://archive.org/details/eveningwithburnsOOburn 


BURNS 


Lord  Tennyson,  the  aristocratic,  reserved,  pro¬ 
fessional  poet,  patiently  polishing  his  verses  through 
many  years  until  at  last  he  was  rewarded  by  being 
made  poet  laureate  and  a  peer ;  Longfellow,  the 
Harvard  professor,  whose  sweet,  melodious,  and 
gentle  songs  were  inspired  by  a  perfectly  correct 
life,  and  Burns,  “Bobbie  Burns”  as  we  prefer  to 
call  him,  ploughing,  sinning,  repenting,  writing  his 
poems  at  odd  moments  as  his  principal  pleasure  in 
life — these  are  about  as  widely  different  as  human 
beings  and  poets  can  be,  but  their  histories  should 
teach  us  that  life  is  broad  and  varied,  and  there 
is  just  as  much  of  interest  in  one  phase  as  another. 
We  may  dislike  the  haughty  coldness  of  Tennyson, 
yet  it  gave  us  the  pleasing  music  and  figurative 
beauty  of  his  verse;  and  we  may  find  distasteful  the 
placid  shallowness  of  Longfellow,  yet  it  gave  us  the 
sweet,  tuneful  melodies  which  have  become  house¬ 
hold  words  in  so  many  thousand  homes;  and  we 
may  regret  the  passionate  and  unfortunate  love  af¬ 
fairs  of  Burns,  yet  they  gave  us  the  most  beautiful, 
true,  and  tender  love  songs  human  pen  ever  wrote. 
The  same  passions  that  in  Burns  went  to  extremes 
are  to  be  found  in  the  breasts  of  half  the  world,  and 
are  the  source  of  more  than  half  the  joy  there  is  in 
life.  Even  the  excesses  of  his  passions  did  not  kill 
out  the  sweet,  the  tender,  and  the  beautiful;  if  he 
did  wrong,  he  repented,  and  in  the  best  of  his  poems 

9 


10 


BURNS 


we  have  only  that  which  all  must  admire.  The 
world  has  agreed  to  forgive  him  and  to  love  him. 
He  has  always  been  the  special  pride  of  the  Scotch¬ 
man;  but  no  other  English  poet  has  been  so  uni¬ 
versally  adopted  in  all  parts  of  the  world. 

Born  in  a  Clay  Hut. 

Robert  Burns  was  born  in  a  cottage  built  of  clay 
by  his  father,  on  a  small  farm  two  miles  south  of 
Ayr,  January  25,  1759.  A  week  after  his  birth 
a  terrible  windstorm  blew  in  the  gable,  and  mother 
and  child  had  to  be  carried  at  midnight  to  the  house 
of  a  neighbor. 

Burns’s  father,  who  spelt  his  name  “Burnes,”  was 
a  fairly  well  educated  and  rather  superior  farmer, 
and  his  mother  “had  a  fine  complexion,  bright  dark 
eyes,  cheerful  spirits,  and  a  memory  stored  with 
song  and  ballad — a  love  for  which  Robert  drew  in 
with  her  milk.”  Both  were  persons  of  firm  integrity 
and  strict  piety.  In  The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night 
the  poet  described  his  own  home,  his  father,  the 
“toil-worn  Cotter,”  collecting  his  “spades,  his  mat¬ 
tocks,  and  his  hoes,  hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and 
rest  to  spend.”  The  life  was  one  of  the  hardest, 
most  grinding  toil,  and  “weary”  indeed  he  often 
was  as  “o’er  the  moor  his  course  he  hameward 
bends.”  Yet  in  all  the  hardship  there  was  a  happi¬ 
ness  none  could  take  away. 

His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinking  bonilie. 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thrifty  wifie’s  smile, 
The  -lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee,  O 
Does  all  his  weary  carking  care  beguile, 

An’  make  him  quite  forget  his  labour  an’  his  toil. 


ISlU 


LIFE 


11 


A  Life  of  Grinding  Toil. 

Robert  was  the  eldest  of  seven  children.  When 
he  was  seven  (in  1766)  his  father  moved  to  an¬ 
other  farm  not  far  away,  called  Mount  Oliphant. 
But  it  was  a  very  poor  farm,  and  for  eleven  years 
the  family  had  a  hard  struggle.  The  two  eldest 
boys,  Robert  and  Gilbert,  had  to  do  the  work  of 
men.  It  was  a  life  of  incessant,  terrible,  weary 
work.  Yet  the  father  did  everything  he  could  for 
the  education  of  his  children.  When  Robert  was 
seven,  four  neighbors  clubbed  together  to  hire  a 
teacher  named  Murdoch  for  Robert  and  Gilbert. 
Gilbert  appeared  the  brighter  of  the  two,  and  Rob¬ 
ert  “wore  a  grave  and  thoughtful  look.”  In  church 
music  the  boys  lagged  far  behind,  and  Robert’s  ear 
is  said  to  have  been  so  dull  that  he  could  scarcely 
distinguish  one  tune  from  another.  This  seems 
strange  when  we  remember  that  Burns  is  one  of 
the  greatest  song  writers  the  world  has  ever  seen. 
Murdoch  taught  him  to  read  good  books,  and  by 
the  time  he  was  eleven,  he  tells  us,  he  was  “a 
critic  in  substantives,  verbs,  and  particles.”  His 
kind,  judicious,  and  thoughtful  father  had  good 
books  in  the  house,  too,  and  they  read  together  the 
Spectator,  Shakespeare’s  plays.  Pope,  Locke  on  The 
Human  TJnderstanding,  Boyle’s  Lectures,  and  Allan 
Ramsay’s  works.  But  Robert’s  favorite  volume  was 
a  collection  of  songs,  of  which  he  says,  “This  was 
my  vade  mecum.  I  pored  over  them  driving  my 
cart,  or  walking  to  labour,  song  by  song,  verse  by 
verse ;  carefully  noting  the  true,  tender,  or  sublime, 
from  affectation  and  fustian.  I  am  convinced  I 


12 


BURNS 


owed  to  this  practice  much  of  my  critic-craft,  such 
as  it  is !”  There  was  in  the  family,  also,  a  certain 
old  woman  named  Betty  Davidson,  who  had  the 
largest  collection  in  the  country  of  tales  and  songs 
concerning  devils,  ghosts,  fairies,  and  the  like,  which 
no  doubt  supplied  Robert  with  the  material  he  used 
in  his  Tam  O’Shanter  and  Address  to  the  Deil. 
Murdoch  also  lent  the  boy  a  Life  of  Hannibal,  and 
a  neighboring  blacksmith  lent  him  a  History  of 
Sir  William  Wallace.  Such  was  the  basis  of  his 
learning.  Not  much,  but  enough  for  a  Burns. 

The  First  Love  Song. 

When  Robert  was  sixteen  the  family  moved  to 
another  farm,  but  not  beLre  Burns  had  found  out 
what  love  was,  and  written  a  poem  to  his  loved  one 
(Handsome  Nell).  “You  know,”  he  says,  “our 
country  custom  of  coupling  a  man  and  woman  to¬ 
gether  as  partners  in  the  labours  of  the  harvest. 
In  my  fifteenth  summer  my  partner  was  a  bewitch¬ 
ing  creature,  a  year  younger  than  myself.  My 
scarcity  of  English  denies  me  the  power  of  doing 
her  justice  in  that  language,  but  you  know  the 
Scotch  idiom.  She  was  a  bonnie,  sweet,  sonsie  lass. 
In  short,  she,  altogether  unwittingly  to  herself, 
initiated  me  in  that  delicious  passion,  which  in  spite 
of  acid  disappointment,  gin-horse  prudence,  and 
book-worm  philosophy,  I  hold  to  be  the  first  of  hu¬ 
man  joys  here  below!  How  she  caught  the  contagion 
I  cannot  tell.  .  .  .  Indeed,  I  did  not  know  myself 
why  I  liked  so  much  to  loiter  behind  with  her  when 
returning  in  the  evening  from  our  labours,  why  the 


LIFE 


13 


tones  of  her  voice  made  my  heart  strings  thrill  like 
an  yEolian  harp ;  and  especially  why  my  pulse  beat 
such  a  furious  ratan  when  I  looked  and  fingered 
over  her  little  hand,  to  pick  out  the  cruel  nettle- 
stings  and  thistles.  Among  her  love-inspiring  qual¬ 
ities  she  sung  sweetly ;  and  it  was  her  favourite 
reel  to  which  I  attempted  giving  an  embodied  ve¬ 
hicle  in  rhyme.  I  was  not  so  presumptuous  as  to 
imagine  that  I  could  make  verses  like  printed  ones, 
composed  by  men  who  read  Greek  and  Latin ;  but 
my  girl  sung  a  song  which  was  said  to  be  com¬ 
posed  by  a  country  laird’s  son,  on  one  of  his  father’s 
maids,  with  whom  he  was  in  love;  and  I  saw 
no  reason  why  I  might  not  rhyme  as  well  as  he ; 
for,  excepting  that  he  could  shear  sheep  and  cast 
peats,  his  father  living  in  the  moorlands,  he  had  no 
more  scholarcraft  than  myself.  Thus  with  me  be¬ 
gan  love  and  poetry.”  This  first  song  ran: 

She  dresses  aye  sae  clean  and  neat, 

Baith  decent  and  genteel, 

And  then  there’s  something  in  her  gait 
Gars  ony  dress  look  week 

“I  composed  it,”  says  Burns,  “in  a  wild  enthu¬ 
siasm  of  passion,  and  to  this  hour  I  never  recollect 
it  but  my  heart  melts,  my  blood  sallies  at  the  re¬ 
membrance.” 

Work  and  Love-Making. 

After  the  family  moved  to  Lochlea,  Burns  went 
to  dancing  school  “to  give  his  manners  a  finish,” 
and  there  was  hardly  a  pretty  lass  in  that  parish 


14 


BURNS 


of  Tarbolton  on  whom  he  did  not  write  a  poem. 
The  grinding  toil  of^the  farm,  continued,  however, 
though  at  first  the  conditions  were  somewhat  better, 
and  Gilbert  and  Robert  received  seven  pounds  apiece 
in  wages. 

In  his  nineteenth  summer  he  went  to  Kirkoswald 
to  study  mensuration  or  surveying.  The  region 
was  infested  with  smugglers,  to  whom  he  was  in¬ 
troduced  with  “scenes  of  swaggering  riot  and  roar¬ 
ing  dissipation.”  The  fact  is.  Burns  was  a  brilliant, 
witty  talker,  and  always  extremely  popular  at  the 
gay  tavern  meetings  which  offered  the  chief  social 
life  of  those  times.  But  the  study  of  mensuration 
went  on  till  one  day  in  the  Kailyard  behind  the 
teacher’s  house  he  met  a  young  lass,  and  “the 
ebullition  of  that  passion  ended  the  school  business 
in  Kirkoswald,”  he  himself  tells  us.  But  he  had 
been  reading  the  songs  of  Shenstone  and  Thomson 
while  at  Kirkoswald,  and  however  much  love-mak¬ 
ing  interfered  with  other  things,  it  helped  on  his 
song-writing,  for  the  more  he  loved  the  more  he 
sang. 

“While  the  love-making  was  incessant,”  says  his 
brother  Gilbert,  “it  was  governed  by  the  strictest 
rules  of  virtue  and  modesty,  from  which  he  never 
deviated  till  he  reached  his  twenty-third  year.” 
And  Gilbert  recalls  that  in  these  days  “Robert  was 
sure  to  enliven  their  toil  with  a  rattling  fire  of 
witty  remarks  on  men  and  things,  mingled  with 
the  expressions  of  a  genial,  glowing  heart,  and  the 
whole  perfectly  free  from  the  taint  which  he  after¬ 
wards  acquired  from  his  contact  with  the  world.  Not 


LIFE 


15 


even  in  those  volumes  which  afterwards  charmed 
his  country  from  end  to  end  did  Gilbert  see  his 
brother  in  so  interesting  a  light  as  in  these  conversa¬ 
tions  in  the  bog  where  they  went  to  cut  peat,  with 
only  two  or  three  noteless  peasants  for  an  audience.” 

An  Unrequited  Love  Inspires  a  Great  Song. 

He  was  not  quite  twenty-three  when  he  fell  in 
love  with  the  daughter  of  a  small  farmer,  who  was 
a  servant  in  a  family  on  Cessnock  Water,  about  two 
miles  from  Lochlea.  Ellison  Begbie  was  not  a 
beauty,  but  she  had  an  unusual  liveliness  and  grace 
of  mind,  and  Burns  would  have  liked  to  marry  her 
and  settle  down  in  life.  She  would  have  none  of 
him,  however.  His  fruitless  love  for  her  inspired 
his  first  really  great  love  song,  the  one  called  “Mary 
Morison,”  one  verse  of  which  reads, — 

Oh,  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  would  gladly  die ; 

Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee? 

If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie. 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown ; 

A  thought  ungentle  canna  be. 

The  thought  o’  Mary  Morison. 

His  father  had  been  giving  him  a  piece  of  ground 
each  year  on  which  he  raised  flax,  and  he  thought 
it  would  be  a  good  idea  to  learn  flax  dressing. 
Accordingly  he  went  to  Irvine  to  live  with  a  rela¬ 
tive  of  his  mother’s,  but  here  he  met  some  smug¬ 
glers  and  tavern  companions,  and  when  they  were 


16 


BURNS 


welcoming  the  new  year  in  bacchanalian  fashion  the 
house  caught  fire  and  burned  down.  This  ended  the 
flax-dressing  project. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Burns  became  a  Free¬ 
mason,  taking  an  enthusiastic  interest  in  the  society. 

He  Learns  the  Meaning  of  Lawless  Love. 

He  seems  to  have  had  no  love  affairs  at  Irvine, 
but  he  met  a  wild  sailor  lad  who  had  a  wonderful 
fascination  for  him.  “He  was,”  says  Burns,  “the 
only  man  I  ever  knew  who  was  a  greater  fool  than 
myself,  where  woman  was  the  presiding  star;  but 
he  spoke  of  lawless  love  with  a  levity  which  hith¬ 
erto  I  had  regarded  with  horror.  Here  his  friend¬ 
ship  did  me  a  mischief.”  Another  companion  in¬ 
duced  him  to  adopt  “more  liberal  opinions”  of  life 
and  religion.  At  the  same  time  all  who  met  him 
were  struck  with  his  air  of  melancholy  and  gloomy 
silence.'  He  wrote  to  his  father,  “As  for  this  world, 
I  despair  of  ever  making  a  figure  in  it.  I  am  not 
formed  for  the  bustle  of  the  busy,  nor  the  flutter  of 
the  gay.  I  shall  never  again  be  capable  of  entering 
into  such  scenes.  Indeed,  I  am  altogether  uncon¬ 
cerned  at  the  thoughts  of  this  life.  I  foresee  that 
poverty  and  obscurity  probably  await  me,  and  I 
am  in  some  measure  prepared,  and  daily  preparing 
to  meet  them.”  Already  he  was  beginning  to  feel  the 
heavy  hand  of  that  fate  which  was  to  crush  out  his 
life,  and  the  thought  made  him  desperate  and  reck¬ 
less,  as  similar  circumstances  did  in  the  case  of 
Poe  many  years  later.  Those  who  have  felt  this 
blighting  touch  and  shared  in  this  desperation  will 


LIFE 


17 


forgive  much  to  the  sensitive  and  gifted  poets  who 
were  driven  by  it  to  indulgences  and  excesses  which 
seemed  the  only  refuge  to  a  darkened  soul. 

Scotch  Farming. 

Toward  the  end  of  1783  the  two  elder  sons  real¬ 
ized  that  something  must  be  done  to  meet  the  im¬ 
pending  crisis  in  their  financial  affairs,  and  on 
their  own  account  took  another  farm  at  Mossgiel, 
in  the  parish  of  Mauchline,  two  or  three  miles  from 
Lochlea.  The  father’s  health  had  long  been  yield¬ 
ing  under  the  struggle  against  poverty,  and  in  the 
following  February  (1784)  he  died. 

The  farm  was  about  118  acres  of  cold  clay  soil, 
but  Robert  Burns  made  a  firm  resolution  to  be 
prudent  and  industrious.  “I  read  farming  books,” 
he  says,  “I  calculated  crops,  I  attended  markets, 
and,  in  short,  in  spite  of  the  devil,  the  world,  and 
the  flesh,  I  should  have  been  a  wise  man;  but  the 
first  year,  from  unfortunately  buying  bad  seed,  the 
second  from  a  late  harvest,  we  lost  half  our  crops. 
This  overset  all  my  wisdom,  and  I  returned  like 
the  dog  to  his  vomit,  and  the  sow  that  was  washed 
to  her  wallowing  in  the  mire.” 

The  fact  is,  his  widowed  mother  had  to  receive 
into  her  family  and  bring  up  “a  child  that  never 
should  have  been  born.”  The  church  took  note  of 
it  and  publicly  punished  him  for  his  sin,  and  he 
wrote  wicked  and  witty  verses  about  it  to  his  friend 
and  boon  companion,  John  Rankine.  This  intro¬ 
duced  the  poet  to  a  new  phase  of  his  life.  The. 
clergy  of  the  country  were  divided  into  two  camps. 


18 


BURNS 


Auld  Lights  and  New  Lights.  It  was  the  Auld 
Light  minister  who  had  punished  Burns  for  his 
sin,  and  this  drove  him  to  take  sides  with  the  New 
Lights,  who  were  more  tolerant  and  easy  in  their 
ways.  The  fact  is,  however,  the  elder  Burns  had 
had  leanings  toward  the  New  Lights,  and  two  friends 
Robert  made  at  this  time,  Mr.  Gavin  Hamilton, 
from  whom  he  held  his  farm  on  a  sublease,  and 
Mr.  Aiken,  to  whom  the  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night 
is  dedicated,  were  in  the  thick  of  personal  dis¬ 
putes  with  the  Auld  Light  clergyman  and  the  local 
church  authorities.  The  lively  interest  that  Burns 
took  in  these  church  quarrels  gave  birth  to  his 
witty  satires,  the  Two  Herds,  Holy  Willie’s  Prayer, 
and  the  Holy  Fair.  Thus  Burns  publicly  committed 
himself,  challenging  not  only  the  conventional  and 
respectable  world,  but  even  the  supporters  of  law, 
order,  and  public  reverence. 

In  his  noted  essay  on  Burns  Carlyle  says,  “With 
principles  assailed  by  evil  example  from  without,  by 
‘passions  raging  like  demons’  from  within,  he  had  lit¬ 
tle  need  of  skeptical  misgivings  to  whisper  treason  in 
the  heat  of  the  battle,  or  to  cut  off  his  retreat  if  he 
were  already  defeated.  He  loses  his  feeling  of  in¬ 
nocence  ;  his  mind  is  at  variance  with  itself ;  the 
old  divinity  no  longer  presides  there ;  but  wild  De¬ 
sires  and  wild  Repentance  alternately  oppress  him. 
Ere  long,  too,  he  had  committed  himself  before  the 
world ;  his  character  for  sobriety,  dear  to  a  Scottish 
peasant  as  few  corrupted  worldings  can  even  con¬ 
ceive,  is  destroyed  in  the  eyes  of  men ;  and  his  only 
refuge  consists  in  trying  to  disbelieve  his  guilti- 


LIFb 


19 


ness,  and  that  is  but  a  refuge  of  lies.  The  blackest 
desperation  gathers  over  him,  broken  only  by  the 
red  lightnings  of  remorse.” 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night. 

Yet  at  the  very  time  he  was  writing  his  satires 
against  the  church,  he  composed  that  most  touch¬ 
ing  and  beautiful  picture  of  the  simple  religion  of 
the  Scotch  peasant,  The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night, 
which  he  repeated  one  Sunday  afternoon  to  his 
brother  Gilbert  as  they  were  out  for  a  walk;  and 
the  brother  describes  himself  as  electrified,  as  well 
he  might  be.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  since  the  death 
of  his  father  Robert  had  himself  led  the  family 
worship,  and  his  sister  speaks  with  the  greatest  ad¬ 
miration  of  the  style  of  his  prayers. 

The  failure  of  his  crops  in  these  years  of  1784 
and  1785  seems  to  have  awakened  in  him  the  con¬ 
viction  that  his  destiny  was  to  be  a  poet,  an  ambi¬ 
tion  which  he  describes  in  his  commonplace  book 
as  follows :  After  speaking  with  admiration  of  the 
works  of  Ramsey  and  Ferguson,  whom  he  always 
refers  to  as  his  models,  he  goes  on,  “Yet  we  have 
never  had  one  Scotch  poet  of  any  eminence  to 
make  the  fertile  banks  of  Irvine,  the  romantic  wood¬ 
lands  and  sequestered  scenes  of  Ayr,  and  the  healthy 
mountainous  'source  and  winding  sweep  of  Doon, 
emulate  Tay,  Forth,  Ettrick,  Tweed.  This  is  a 
complaint  I  would  gladly  remedy,  but,  alas !  I  am 
far  unequal  to  the  task,  both  in  native  genius  and 
in  education.  Obscure  I  am,  obscure  I  must  be. 


20 


URNS 


though  no  young  poet  nor  young  soldier’s  heart 
ever  beat  more  fondly  for  fame  than  mine.” 

In  a  period  of  about  six  months,  from  November, 
1785,  to  April,  1786,  he  wrote  most  of  those  de¬ 
scriptive  poems  which  have  done  so  much  to  make 
bis  name  famous — Halloween,  To  a  Mouse,  The 
Jolly  Beggars,  The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night,  Ad¬ 
dress  to  the  Deil,  The  Auld  Farmer’s  Address  to 
His  Auld  Mare,  The  Vision,  The  Twa  Dogs,  The 
Mountain  Daisy,  and  some  six  or  seven  epistles 
to  brother  bards. 

In  one  of  his  epistles*  he  says  of  the  joy  it  was  to 
him  to  write  these  poems, 

Leeze  me  on  rhyme !  it’s  aye  a  treasure. 

My  chief,  amaist  my  only  pleasure. 

At  hame,  a-fiel’,  at  wark,  at  leisure, 

The  Muse,  poor  hizzie ! 

Tho’  rough  and  raploch  be  her  measure. 

She’s  seldom  lazy. 

Chambers,  one  of  Burns’s  biographers,  thus  de¬ 
scribes  the  garret  in  which  all  of  these  poems  were 
written :  “The  farmhouse  of  Mossgiel,  which  still 
exists  almost  unchanged  since  the  days  of  the  poet,  is 
very  small,  consisting  of  only  two  rooms,  a  but  and  a 
ben,  as  they  are  called  in  Scotland.  Over  these, 
reached  by  a  trap  stair,  is  a  small  garret,  in  which 
Robert  and  his  brother  used  to  sleep.  Thither,  when 
he  had  returned  from  his  day’s  work,  the  poet  used 
to  retire,  and  seat  himself  at  a  small  deal  table, 
lighted  by  a  narrow  skylight  in  the  roof,  to  tran¬ 
scribe  the  verses  which  he  had  composed  in  the  fields. 


LIFE 


21 


His  favourite  time  for  composition  was  at  the 
plough.  Long  years  afterward  his  sister,  Mrs. 
Begg,  used  to  tell  how,  when  her  brother  had 
gone  forth  again  to  field-work,  she  would  steal  up  to 
the  garret  and  search  the  drawer  of  the  deal  table 
for  the  verses  which  Robert  had  newly  transcribed.” 

Burns  Meets  His  Future  Wife. 

There  can  have  been  very  little  drinking  or 
carousing  during  this  Mossgiel  period,  for  Gilbert 
says  Robert’s  private  expenditures  did  not  exceed 
seven  pounds  a  year.  His  principal  pleasures  must 
have  been  verse-making  and  love-making.  Soon 
after  he  came  to  this  farm  he  had  met  Jean  Ar¬ 
mour  at  a  penny  wedding,  and  their  acquaintance 
soon  ripened  into  passion  on  his  part.  In  the 
spring  of  1786  he  learned  that  she  was  about  to 
become  a  mother.  The  news  came  to  him  like  a 
thunder-clap,  and  he  did  what  he  could  to  repair 
the  wrong  by  giving  her  a  written  acknowledge¬ 
ment  of  marriage,  a  document  recognized  by  Scotch 
law  as  legalizing  their  union.  But  Mr.  Armour, 
who  was  a  respectable  mason,  was  so  indignant  at 
the  idea  of  his  daughter’s  relations  with  a  man 
like  Burns  that  he  got  hold  of  the  writing  and 
destroyed  it.  Burns  himself  felt  driven  to  the 
verge  of  insanity  by  the  turn  affairs  had  taken, 
,and  his  troubles  culminated  when  the  Armours 
let  loose  the  terrors  of  the  law  against  him  and 
he  was  obliged  to  skulk  from  the  house  of  one 
friend  to  another.  He  felt  that  it  was  better  for 
him  to  leave  the  country,  and  accordingly  he  ar- 


22 


BURNS 


ranged  with  Dr.  Douglas  to  act  as  bookkeeper  on 
his  estate  in  Jamaica.  As  he  did  not  have  the 
necessary  nine  pounds  to  pay  his  steerage  passage 
out  there,  it  was  suggested  to  him  that  he  publish 
a  subscription  edition  of  his  poems  to  raise  the 
amount.  So  the  irrtrnortal  poems  were  published 
to  raise  nine  pounds  to  carry  the  poet  into  exile ! 

Jean  Armour’s  desertion  of  him,  coming  on  the 
heels  of  the  failure  of  his  farming,  plunged  Burns 
into  a  despair  that  he  has  chronicled  in  his  poem 
The  Lament,  beginning. 

Oh,  thou  pale  orb,  that  silent  shines. 

While  care-untroubled  mortals  sleep ! 

Thou  seest  a  wretch  who  inly  pines. 

And  wanders  here  to  wail  and  weep! 

Highland  Mary. 

But  in  this  extremity  of  his  desperation  there  ap¬ 
peared  to  comfort  him  a  girl  who  inspired  his 
tenderest,  purest,  and  most  exquisite  love  songs.  It 
is  certainly  strange  that  this  pure  white  flower  of 
affection  should  have  appeared  as  it  were  an  inter¬ 
lude  between  the  first  and  second  acts  of  his  rela¬ 
tions  with  Jean  Armour,  who  was  to  become  his 
wife.  How  Burns  made  the  acquaintance  with  Mary 
Campbell,  his  Highland  Mary,  we  do  not  know,  and 
indeed  very  little  is  known  of  the  whole  affair  out¬ 
side  his  poems.  She  was  maid-servant  in  the  family 
of  his  friend,  Mr.  Hamilton,  whither  she  had  come 
from  Argyllshire.  On  the  second  Sunday  of  May, 
1786,  (the  month  following  the  scenes  with  Jean 
Armour)  they  met  on  the  banks  of  the  River  Ayr 


LIFE 


23 


to  spend  one  day  of  parting  love,  and  standing  on 
either  side  of  a  small  brook,  they  dipped  their  hands 
in  the  stream  (according  to  the  old  Scottish  custom), 
and  holding  a  Bible  between  them,  vowed  eternal 
fidelity  to  one  another.  The  Bible  which  Burns  gave 
her  that  day  has  been  found.  It  is  in  two  volumes, 
and  in  the  first  volume  in  Burns’s  handwriting  is  en- 
scribed  “And  ye  shall  not  swear  by  My  Name  falsely, 
I  am  the  Lord”;  in  the  other,  “Thou  shalt  not  fore¬ 
swear  thyself,  but  shalt  perform  unto  the  Lord 
thine  oath.”  The  names  of  Mary  Campbell  and 
Robert  Burns  which  were  originally  inscribed  in 
the  Bible  have  been  almost  obliterated.  Strange  as 
it  may  seem.  Burns  never  mentioned  the  name  of 
Mary  Campbell  to  any  member  of  his  family,  and 
the  month  after  their  parting,  in  writing  to  a  friend 
about  “poor,  ill-advised  Armour,”  he  remarked  that 
“to  confess  a  truth  between  you  and  me,  I  do  still 
love  her  to  distraction  after  all,  though  I  won’t  tell 
her  so  if  I  were  to  see  her.”  However,  Burns  and 
Mary  never  met  again.  She  was  going  home  to  pre¬ 
pare  for  her  wedding  with  him,  but  in  October  of 
the  same  year  she  came  from  Argyllshire  as  far  as 
Greenock,  where  she  was  attacked  by  a  fever  and 
died.  When  Burns  received  the  letter  telling  of 
her  death  he  was  at  Mossgiel.  He  went  to  the 
window  to  read  the  letter,  and  the  family  noticed 
that  on  a  sudden  his  face  changed.  He  went  out 
without  speaking,  and  they  never  questioned  him. 
But  three  years  afterward  he  wrote  that  most 
beautiful  of  his  poems  in  English,  To  Mary  in 
Heaven — a  testimony  to  the  lasting  quality  of  his 


24 


BURNS 


love.  Some  writers,  however,  do  not  take  this  love 
of  Mary  so  seriously.  Burns  ever  thought  most 
tenderly  and  purely  of  what  he  couldn’t  get,  and  the 
Highland  Mary  of  his  poems  may  be  after  all  only 
the  idealized  vision  of  his  heart,  which  materialized 
itself  about  Mary  Campbell  chiefly  because  she  died. 
Poets  are  ever  wont  to  be  more  tender  with  their 
memories  than  with  their  realities. 

His  Poems  Are  Published. 

Burns  went  to  Kilmarnock  in  the  fall  to  escape 
being  compelled  to  support  his  twin  children,  and 
there  read  the  proof  of  the  first  edition  of  his 
poems.  Some  six  hundred  copies  were  printed, 
half  of  which  were  subscribed  for  in  advance.  The 
book  made  a  sensation,  and  the  other  half  of  the  edi¬ 
tion  was  quickly  sold.  Burns  cleared  twenty  pounds, 
and  because  of  the  success  postponed  his  journey  to 
Jamaica.  Dr.  Thomas  Blacklock  wrote  a  letter  full 
of  admiration  of  the  author’s  ability,  and  the  poems 
were  reviewed  in  the  Edinburgh  Magazine  for  Octo¬ 
ber.  “"A  second  edition  was  called  for,  and  friends 
urged  Burns  to  go  to  Edinburgh  to  publish  it. 

The  journey  was  a  sort  of  triumphal  progress. 
Burns  rode  on  a  borrowed  pony,  and  was  enter¬ 
tained  by  friends  on  the  way.  The  first  stop  was 
made  at  the  farm  of  a  Mr.  Prentice,  whose  son  in 
a  letter  describes  the  occasion ;  “All  the  farmers 
in  the  parish  had  read  the  poet’s  then  published 
works,  and  were  anxious  to  see  him.  They  were  all 
asked  to  meet  him  at  a  late  dinner,  and  the  signal 
of  his  arrival  was  to  be  a  white  sheet  attached  to 


LIFE 


25 


a  pitchfork,  and  put  on  the  top  of  a  cornstack  in 
the  barnyard.  The  parish  is  a  beautiful  amphithe¬ 
atre,  with  the  Clyde  winding  through  it.  .  .  .  My 
father’s  stack,  lying  in  the  centre,  was  seen  from 
every  house  in  the  parish.  At  length  Burns  arrived, 
mounted  on  a  borrowed  pownie.  Instantly  was  the 
white  flag  hoisted,  and  as  instantly  were  seen  the 
farmers  issuing  from  their  houses,  and  converging 
to  the  point  of  meeting.  A  glorious  evening,  or 
rather  night,  which  borrowed  something  from  the 
morning,  followed,  and  the  conversation  of  the  poet 
confirmed  and  increased  the  admiration  created  by 
his  writings.”  And  this  is  but  a  sample  of  the  way 
in  which  he  was  received  wherever  he  went. 

A  Hero  in  Edinburgh. 

On  reaching  Edinburgh  Burns  sought  out  a 
Mauchline  friend,  named  John  Richmond,  and  dur¬ 
ing  the  whole  of  that  gay  winter  shared  this  lad’s 
garret,  for  which  they  paid  three  shillings  a  week. 
Of  course  Burns  came  with  no  social  introductions, 
but  he  soon  found  friends.  A  Mr.  Dalrymple,  whom 
he  had  met  in  Ayrshire,  introduced  him  to  Lord 
Glencairn,  who  became  one  of  Burns’  most  faithful 
friends,  and  on  December  9th  Henry  Mackenzie, 
“The  Man  of  Feeling,”  appeared  with  an  article  in 
the  Lounger,  which  hailed  Burns  as  an  original  poet, 
bearing  the  stamp  of  true  genius,  and  he  urged  his 
countrymen  to  repair  the  wrongs  which  suffering 
and  neglect  had  inflicted  on  the  great  national  poet 
who  had  arisen  among  them.  Within  a  month  Burns 
was  a  welcome  guest  at  the  table  of  the  leading  lit- 


26 


BURNS 


erary  and  social  lights  of  Edinburgh,  caressed  by 
duchesses,  smiled  on  by  lords,  and  sought  by  literary 
men,  judges,  and  professors.  Sir  Walter  Scott  says, 
“I  was  a  lad  of  fifteen  when  Burns  came  to  Edin¬ 
burgh,  but  had  sense  enough  to  be  interested  in  his 
poetry,  and  would  have  given  the  world  to  know 
him.  I  saw  him  one  day  with  several  gentlemen  of 
literary  reputation,  among  them  I  remember  the 
celebrated  Dugald  Stewart.  .  .  .  His  person  was 

robust,  his  manners  rustic,  not  clownish.  .  .  . 

His  countenance  was  more  massive  than  it  looks  in 
any  of  his  portraits.  There  was  a  strong  expres¬ 
sion  of  shrewdness  in  his  lineaments,  the  eye  alone 
indicating  the  poetic  character  and  temperament.  It 
was  large  and  of  a  dark  cast,  and  literally  glowed 
when  he  spoke  with  feeling  or  interest.  I  never 
saw  such  another  eye  in  any  human  head.  His 
conversation  expressed  perfect  self-confidence,  with¬ 
out  the  least  intrusive  forwardness.  I  thought  his 
acquaintance  with  English  poetry  was  rather  limited, 
and  having  twenty  times  the  ability  of  Allan  Ram¬ 
say  and  of  Ferguson  he  talked  of  them  with  too 
much  humility  as  his  models.  He  was  much 
caressed  in  Edinburgh,  but  the  efforts  made  for 
his  relief  were  extremely  trifling.” 

Burns  was  known  as  “the  Ploughman  Poet,”  and 
was  treated  as  a  sort  of  prodigy.  He  himself  rec¬ 
ognized  the  hollowness  of  it  all,  and  declared  he 
had  a  living  at  the  plough  tail,  and  indeed  never 
seems  to  have  thought  of  becoming  a  regular  lit¬ 
erary  worker  in  Edinburgh. 

Creech,  then  the  leading  publisher  of  Edinburgh, 


LIFE 


27 


brought  out  the  second  edition  of  his  poems,  under 
the  patronage  of  a  fashionable  association,  known 
as  the  Caledonian  Hunt,  and  one  nobleman  sub¬ 
scribed  for  as  many  as  forty-two  copies.  In  all 
Burns  realized  nearly  five  hundred  pounds  (twenty- 
five  hundred  dollars),  though  it  was  more  than  a 
year  before  he  got  a  settlement. 

While  he  was  dining  with  duchesses,  he  was  often 
spending  his  nights  with  a  less  refined  class  at  tav¬ 
erns.  At  that  time  tavern  life  was  in  the  ascendant 
in  Scotland,  and  gathered  what  we  moderns  call  the 
“true  Bohemians.”  Undoubtedly  Burns  liked  Bo¬ 
hemia  better  than  he  did  fashionable  society,  and  in 
this  many  today  will  sympathize  with  him.  His  de¬ 
sire  seems  to  have  been  to  get  a  farm  and  settle 
down,  and  he  was  soon  making  inquiries  in  this 
direction. 

The  Return  to  Mossgiel. 

The  following  spring  he  left  Edinburgh,  and  after 
a  pleasure  trip  to  various  Scottish  scenes  he  had 
long  been  familiar  with  in  song  and  ballad  and 
wished  to  see,  he  returned  to  Mossgiel.  The  Armour 
family,  who  the  year  before  had  threatened  him  with 
the  law,  was  now  all  smiles.  “If  anything  had  been 
wanting  to  disgust  me  completely  with  the  Armour 
family,  their  mean,  servile  compliance  would  have 
done  it.”  A  proud  spirit  that  had  rankled  under 
the  surface  in  Edinburgh,  seems  to  have  been  not 
less  bitter  in  Ayrshire,  and  he  wrote  to  a  friend,  “I 
never,  my  friends,  thought  mankind  very  capable 
of  anything  generous,  but  the  stateliness  of  the  patri- 


28 


BURNS 


cians  in  Edinburgh,  and  the  civility  of  my  plebeian 
brethren  (who  perhaps  formerly  eyed  me  askance) 
since  I  returned  home,  have  nearly  put  me  out  of 
conceit  altogether  with  my  species.  I  have  bought 
a  pocket  copy  of  Milton,  which  I  carry  perpetually 
about  with  me  in  order  to  study  the  sentiments, 
the  dauntless  magnanimity,  the  intrepid,  unyield¬ 
ing  independence,  the  desperate  daring,  and  noble 
defiance  of  hardship,  in  that  gro'at  personage, 
Satan.”  He  met  Jean  Armour  accidentally,  and 
their  affectionate  intimacy  was  renewed,  as  if  no 
break  between  them  had  ever  occurred.  At  the 
end  of  June  he  made  another  journey,  this  time 
to  the  Highlands.  In  a  letter  describing  some 
“high  jinks”  in  the  north,  he  says,  “I  have  yet 
fixed  on  nothing  with  respect  to  the  serious  busi¬ 
ness  of  life.  I  am,  as  usual,  a  rhyming,  mason¬ 
making,  raking,  aimless,  idle  fellow.  However,  I  shall 
somewhere  have  a  farm  soon.” 

He  returned  to  Edinburgh  to  see  his  publisher 
about  getting  a  settlement,  after  which  he  set  out 
on  another  pleasure  trip  to  the  north,  among  other 
places  visiting  Bannockburn. 

Noble  Friends  Grow  Cold. 

The  following  winter  was  spent  in  Edinburgh, 
apparently  in  an  effort  to  get  a  long-delayed  set¬ 
tlement  with  Creech.  The  second  winter  in  Ed¬ 
inburgh  was  very  different  from  the  first.  The 
noble  lords  who  had  been  so  eager  to  welcome, 
now  barely  nodded  as  they  passed  the  poet  on  the 
street,  and  the  dinner  invitations  from  duchesses 


LIFE 


29 


and  legal  lights  did  not  arrive.  The  Ploughman 
Poet  had  been  a  fad,  and  the  fad  had  run  its  day. 
Burns  did  not  care,  apparently,  but  plunged  into 
his  last  historic  love  passion.  He  had  made  the 
acquaintance  of  two  young  ladies  in  Edinburgh  of 
whom  he  was  fond.  Miss  Chalmers  and  Miss  Ham¬ 
ilton,  and  wrote  poems  to  both,  but  while  they 
welcomed  his  friendship,  they  did  not  encourage 
any  love-making,  and  both  were  married  not  long 
after.  He  was  introduced,  however,  to  a  Mrs. 
M’Lehose,  who  had  been  deserted  by  her  husband 
and  left  to  provide  for  her  children  as  best  she 
could.  Before  Burns  was  able  to  call  upon  her  he 
was  upset  by  a  drunken  coachman,  so  that  he  was 
confined  to  his  room  for  several  weeks  with  an 
injured  knee.  He  wrote  the  lady  a  note  of  apology, 
she  responded  with  expressions  of  warm  sympathy 
and  friendship,  and  Burns  was  only  too  ready  to 
plunge  into  a  most  impassioned  correispondence. 
We  are  told  that  this  lady  was  “of  a  somewhat 
voluptuous  style  of  beauty,  of  lively  and  easy  man¬ 
ners,  of  a  poetical  fabric  of  mind,  with  some  wit 
and  not  too  high  a  degree  of  refinement  or  delicacy, 
exactly  the  kind  of  woman  to  fascinate  Burns.”  On 
December  30th  he  wrote,  “Almighty  love  still  reigns 
and  revels  in  my  bosom,  and  I  am  at  this  moment 
ready  to  hang  myself  for  a  young  Edinburgh  widow, 
who  has  wit  and  wisdom  more  murderously  fatal 
than  the  assassinating  stiletto  of  the  Sicilian  bandit, 
or  the  poison  arrow  of  the  savage  African.”  They 
called  each  other  Clarinda  and  Sylvander,  and  their 
letters  have  been  preserved  and  published.  The 


30 


BURNS 


lady  seems  to  have  thought  seriously  of  a  union 
with  Burns  when  Mr.  M’Lehose  had  been  dis¬ 
posed  of,  but  the  bombastic  style  in  which  Burns 
wrote  seems  incompatible  with  anything  more  on 
his  part  than  a  desire  to  indulge  his  passion.  The 
excitement  of  the  affair  was  like  an  intoxicant  to 
him,  and  gave  him  the  relief  from  his  troubles 
that  drink  did.  Again  and  again  he  vowed  eternal 
love  and  fidelity,  but  a  few  weeks  later  when  he 
learned  that  Jean  Armour  was  once  more  in 
trouble  and  had  been  turned  out  of  doors  by  her 
father,  he  returned  to  Mossgiel  and  married  her. 
The  correspondence  with  Clarinda  languished  and 
very  soon  came  to  an  end. 

He  Becomes  an  Excise  Man. 

Of  the  five  hundred  pounds  Burns  received  from 
Creech,  he  had  doubtless  spent  one  hundred  in 
Edinburgh,  nearly  two  hundred  more  he  gave  to 
his  brother  who  was  in  straits  (presumably  as  his 
provision  for  their  mother),  and  with  the  other 
two  hundred  he  made  a  home  for  himself  and  his 
Jean  on  a  farm  he  had  rented  at  Ellisland.  The 
farm  was  a  very  beautiful  spot,  but  Burns  had 
made  “a  poet’s,  not  a  farmer’s,  choice,”  for  the 
soil  was  hard  and  poor.  The  only  favor  he  got 
from  his  Edinburgh  friends  was  having  his  name 
put  on  the  Excise  list. 

He  had  to  build  a  house  on  the  new  farm  and 
furnish  it  before  he  could  bring  his  wife  and 
children  there,  and  he  very  soon  found  it  ad¬ 
visable  to  take  his  excise  appointment,  which  added 


LIFE 


.^1 

fifty  pounds  a  year  to  his  income.  At  first  he 
seems  to  have  been  very  happy,  as  we  may  judge 
from  his  song,  “I  hae  a  wife  o’  my  ain.”  Jean 
was  a  patient,  devoted,  faithful  wife  to  him,  and 
in  the  nearly  forty  years  she  lived  after  his  death 
cherished  and  revered  his  memory  to  the  last.  He 
had  friends,  too,  in  whom  he  took  pleasure,  such 
as  Mrs.  Dunlop,  who  on  seeing  a  copy  of  his  first 
edition  had  sent  a  messenger  to  Mossgiel  with  an 
order  for  six  more,  so  inaugurating  an  acquaint¬ 
ance  which  Burns  cherished  to  the  end,  and  Mrs. 
Riddell,  who,  with  her  husband,  continued  his  friend 
and  agreeable  companion  except  for  one  temporary 
break. 

During  these  years  his  one  comfort  and  pleasure 
was  writing  songs.  In  Edinburgh  he  had  made 
the  acquaintance  of  James  Johnson,  who  was  mak¬ 
ing  a  collection  of  Scottish  songs  and  ballads,  called 
the  Musical  Museum,  and  to  this  Burns  contributed 
in  all  one  hundred  and  eighty-four  songs,  some 
original,  many  altered  or  with  a  stanza  or  two 
added,  others  merely  collected. 

In  a  couple  of  years  he  had  sunk  all  his  money 
in  the  farm  at  Ellisland,  and  was  compelled  to  sell 
up  his  crops  and  depend  henceforth  on  his  salary 
as  exciseman.  This  was  increased  to  seventy 
pounds,  and  he  moved  to  Dumfries,  a  third-rate 
Scottish  town,  where  in  miserable  surroundings  he 
spent  the  last  four  years  of  his  life  cut  off  from  the 
beauties  and  solace  of  the  picturesque  country  of 
which  he  was  so  fond.  His  health  began  to  fail, 
hope  for  the  future  had  been  taken  from  him,  and 


32 


BURNS 


he  spent  these  last  years  in  a  tragical  struggle  for 
food  for  himself  and  his  family.  Just  before  he 
died  he  sent  passionate  appeals  to  two  of  his  friends 
for  small  sums  to  keep  him  out  of  jail.  No  doubt 
when  he  could  he  drowned  his  woes  in  liquor,  as 
in  other  years  he  had  solaced  himself  with  too 
passionate  love-making.  But  our  pity  must  over¬ 
come  our  condemnation. 

The  Solace  of  Song  Writing. 

Soon  after  he  went  to  Dumfries  Mr.  George 
Thomson  wrote  him  a  letter  about  a  new  collec¬ 
tion  of  Scottish  melodies,  airs,  and  words  which 
a  band  of  musical  amateurs  at  Edinburgh  was 
contemplating.  It  was  to  be  a  more  carefully  se¬ 
lected  gathering  than  that  of  the  Museum,  edited 
with  more  rigid  care,  and  to  be  supplied  with  sym¬ 
phonies  and  accompaniments  from  the  first  mu¬ 
sicians  of  Europe.  In  answer  Burns  wrote,  “As 
the  request  you  make  to  me  will  positively  add  to 
my  enjoyment  in  complying  with  it,  I  shall  enter 
into  your  undertaking,  with  all  the  srhall  portion 
of  abilities  I  have,  strained  to  their  utmost  exertion 
by  the  impulse  of  enthusiasm.  As  to  remuneration, 
you  may  think  my  songs  either  above  or  below 
price;  for  they  shall  be  absolutely  the  one  or  the 
other.  In  the  honest  enthusiasm  in  which  I  em¬ 
bark  in  your  undertaking,  to  talk  of  money,  wages, 
fee,  hire,  etc.,  would  be  downright  prostitution  of 
soul.”  Thomson  was  not  at  all  rich,  and  never  got 
much  out  of  his  collection  beyond  a  return  of  the 
large  sums  he  had  to  pay  out.  Once  he  sent  Burns 


LIFE 


33 


a  small  sum,  but  the  poet  replied,  “I  assure  you, 
my  dear  sir,  that  you  truly  hurt  me  with  your 
pecuniary  parcel.  It  degrades  me  in  my  own  eyes. 
However,  to  return  it  would  savour  of  affectation ; 
but,  as  to  any  more  traffic  of  that  debtor  and 
creditor  kind,  I  swear,  by  that  honour  which  crowns 
the  upright  statue  of  Robert  Burns’s  Integrity,  on 
the  least  motion  of  it  I  will  indignantly  spurn  the 
by-pact  transaction,  and  from  that  moment  com¬ 
mence  entire  stranger  to  you.”  The  case  with  John¬ 
son  had  been  much  the  same.  But  just  before  his 
death  Burns  appealed  to  Thomson  for  five  pounds 
and  got  it  by  return  of  post.  Practically  all  the 
writings  of  this  period  were  songs,  except  Tam 
o’  Shanter,  which  was  dashed  off  in  a  single  sum¬ 
mer’s  day. 

Death. 

In  the  early  summer  of  1796  Mrs.  Burns  was 
about  to  be  confined  with  a  child  actually  born 
after  its  father’s  death,  and  the  sister  of  a  neigh¬ 
bor,  Miss  Jessie  Lewars,  cared  for  the  poet  in  his 
last  days.  To  her  he  wrote  two  songs,  one  among 
the  most  beautiful  of  his  composition.  He  died 
^uly  21,  1796,  and  as  he  was  being  buried  with  all 
the  honor  the  neighborhood  was  capable  of  mus¬ 
tering  his  wife  gave  birth  to  a  posthumous  son, 
who,  however,  did  not  live  long.  His  grave  was 
unmarked  for  some  years,  when  his  wife  put  up 
a  simple  stone.  Twenty-one  years  later  a  some¬ 
what  pretentious  mausoleum  was  erected  by  public 
subscription,  and  stands  to  this  day,  visited,  each 


34  BURNS 

year  by  many  pilgrims  to  the  grave  of  Robert 
Burns. 

No  more  truthful  inscription  could  have  been 
chiselled  on  his  tomb  than  his  own  “Bard’s  Epi¬ 
taph,”  written  ten  years  before: 

The  poor  inhabitant  below 

Was  quick  to  learn  and  wise  to  know, 

'  And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow 
And  softer  flame; 

But  thoughtless  folly  laid  him  low 
And  stained  his  name. 

Reader,  attend  !  whether  thy  soul 

Soars  fancy’s  flight  beyond  the  pole. 

Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole. 

In  low  pursuit; 

Know,  prudent,  cautious  self-control 
Is  wisdom’s  root. 

As  a  poet  he  “interpreted  the  lives,  thoughts, 
feelings,  manners  of  the  Scottish  peasantry  to  whom 
he  belonged.  ...  He  not  only  sympathized 
with  the  wants,  the  trials,  the  joys  and  sorrows  of 
their  obscure  lot,  but  he  interpreted  these  to  them¬ 
selves,  and  interpreted,  them  to  others,  and  this, 
too,  in  their  own  language,  made  musical  and  glori¬ 
fied  by  genius.  ...  In  looking  up  to  him  the 
Scottish  people  have  seen  an  impersonation  of  them¬ 
selves  on  a  large  scale — of  themselves,  both  in  their 
virtues  and  in  their  vices.”  And  these  virtues  and 
vices  have  turned  out  to  be  in  good  part  the  vir- 


LIFE 


35 


tues  and  vices  of  all  mankind.  He  is  so  great 
because  of  his  simple  sincerity  and  truth,  and  as 
Wordsworth  sang,  teaches  us— 

How  verse  may  build  a  princely  throne 
On  humble  truth. 


The  preface  to  the  Kilmarnock  edition  of  Burns’s 
poems  begins,  “The  following  trifles  are  not  the 
production  of  the  poet  who,  with  all  the  advan¬ 
tages  of  learned  art,  and  perhaps  amid  the  ele¬ 
gance  and  idlenesses  of  upper  life,  looks  down  for 
a  rural  theme,  with  an  eye  to  Theocritus  or  Virgil. 
To  the  author  of  this,  these  and  other  celebrated 
names,  their  countrymen,  are,  in  their  original  lan¬ 
guage,  a  fountain  shut  up  and  a  book  sealed.  Unac¬ 
quainted  with  the  necessary  requisites  'oi  beginning 
poet  by  rule,  he  sings  the  sentiments  and  manners 
he  felt  and  saw  in  himself  and  his  rustic  compeers 
around  him.  in  his  and  their  native  language.’’ 


Note. — The  spelling  and  style  of  the  original  editions 
(not  always  consistent)  have  been  followed  so  far  as 
possible  in  this  edition  of  Burns. 

36 


LOVE  SONGS 


MY  NANIE,  O. 

Written  when  Burns  was  seventeen  or  eighteen, 
and  according  to  his  brother  Gilbert  addressed  to 
Agnes  Fleming,  the  daughter  of  a  farmer  in  Tar- 
bolton  parish,  after  the  Burnses  moved  to  Lochlea. 

Behind  yon  hills  where  Stinchar  flows, 

’Mang  moors  an’  mosses  many,  O, 

The  wintry  sun  the  day  has  clos’d. 

And  I’ll  awa’  to  Nanie,  O. 

The  westlin  wind  blaws  loud  an’  shrill; 

The  night’s  baith  mirk  and  rainy,  O: 

But  I’ll  get  my  plaid,  an’  out  I’ll  steal. 

An’  owre  the  hill  to  Nanie,  O. 

My  Nanie’s  charming,  sweet,  an’  young: 

Nae  artfu’  wiles  to  win  ye,  O; 

May  ill  befa’  the  flattering  tongue 
That  wad  beguile  my  Nanie,  O. 

Her  face  is  fair,  her  heart  is  true. 

As  spotless  as  she’s  bonie,  O: 

The  op’ning  gowan,  wat  wi’  dew, 

Nae  purer  is  than  Nanie,  O. 

A  country  lad  is  my  degree. 

An’  few  there  be  that  ken  me,  O; 

But  what  care  I  how  few  they  be, 

I’m  welcome  aye  to  Nanie,  O. 

37 


38 


BURNS 


My  riches  a’s  my  penny-fee, 

An’  I  maun  guide  it  cannie,  O; 

But  warl’s  gear  ne’er  troubles  me, 

My  thoughts  are  a’,  my  Nanie,  O. 

Our  auld  Guidman  delights  to  view 
His  -sheep  an’  kye  thrive  bonie,  O ; 

But  I’m  as  blythe  that  bauds  his  pleugh. 

An’  has  nae  care  but  Nanie,  O. 

Come  weel,  come  woe,  I  care  na  by. 

I’ll  tak  what  Heav’n  will  send  me,  O; 

Nae  ither  care  in  life  have  I, 

But  live,  an’  love  my  Nanie,  O. 

ON  CESSNOCK  BANKS. 

Addressed  (1781)  to  Ellison  Begbie,  the  girl  who 
refused  to  listen  to  Burns’s  love-making. 

On  Cessnock  banks  a  lassie  dwells ; 

Could  I  describe  her  shape  and  mien^; 

Our  lassies  a’  she  far  excels, 

An’  she  has  twa  sparkling  rogueish  een. 

She’s  sweeter  than  the  morning  dawn 
When  rising  Phoebus  first  is  seen, 

And  dew-drops  twinkle  o’er  the  lawn; 

An’  she  has  twa  sparkling  rogueish  een. 

She’s  stately  like  yon  youthful  ash 
That  grows  the  cowslips  braes  between. 

And  drinks  the  stream  with  vigour  fresh ; 

An’  she  has  twa  sparkling  rogueish  een. 


LOVE  SONGS 


39 


She’s  spotless  like  the  flow’ring  thorn 
With  flow’rs  so  white  and  leaves  so  green, 
When  purest  in  the  dewy  morn ; 

An’  she  has  twa  sparkling  rogueish  een. 

Her  looks  are  like  the  vernal  May, 

When  ev’ning  Phoebus  shines  serene. 
While  birds  rejoice  on  every  spray; 

An’  she  has  twa  sparkling  rogueish  een. 

Her  hair  is  like  the  curling  mist 
That  climbs  the  mountain-sides  at  e’en, 
When  flow’r-reviving  rains  are  past; 

An’  she  has  twa  sparkling  rogueish  een. 

Her  forehead’s  like  the  show’ry  bow. 

When  gleaming  sunbeams  intervene 
And  gild  the  distant  mountain’s  brow ; 

An’  she  has  twa  sparkling  rogueish  een. 

Her  cheeks  are  like  yon  crimson  gem. 

The  pride  of  all  the  flowery  scene. 

Just  opening  on  its  thorny  stem; 

An’  she  has  twa  sparkling  rogueish  een. 

Her  teeth  are  like  the  aightly  snow 
When  pale  the  morning  rises  keen. 

While  hid  the  murmuring  streamlets  flow; 
An’  she  has  twa  sparkling  rogueish  e^. 

Her  lips  are  like  yon  cherries  ripe. 

That  sunny  walls  from  Boreas  screen; 
They  tempt  the  taste  and  charm  the  sight; 
An’  she  has  twa  sparkling  rogueish  een. 


40 


BURNS 


Her  teeth  are  like  a  flock  of  sheep, 

With  fleeces  newly  washen  clean, 

That  slowly  mount  the  rising  steep: 

An’  she  has  twa  sparkling  rogueish  een. 

Her  breath  is  like  the  fragrant  breeze 
That  gently  stirs  the  blossom’d  bean. 

When  Phoebus  sinks  beneath  the  seas ; 

An’  she  has  twa  sparkling  rogueish  een. 

Her  voice  is  like  the  ev’ning  thrush 
That  sings  on  Cessnock  banks  unseen, 

While  his  mate  sits  nestling  in  the  bush ; 

An’  she  has  twa  sparkling  rogueish  een. 

But  it’s  not  her  air,  her  form,  her  face, 

Tho’  matching  beauty’s  fabled  queen, 

’Tis  the  mind  that  shines  in  ev’ry  grace. 

An’  chiefly  in  her  rogueish  een. 

MARY  MORISON. 

This  song,  written  probably  two  years  later,  when 
Burns  was  twenty-five,  is  thought  also  to  have  been 
addressed  to  Ellison  Begbie,  and  is  his  first  song 
of  really  surpassing  merit. 

O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be. 

It  is  the  wish’d,  the  trysted  hour ! 

Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see. 

That  make  the  miser’s  treasure  poorj^ 

How  blythely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun; 

Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure. 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 


LOVE  SONGS 


41 


Yestreen,  when  to  the  trembling  string 
The  dance  gaed  thro’  the  lighted  ha’, 

To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 

I  sat,  but  neither  heard  or  saw : 

Tho’  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw. 

And  yon  the  toast  of  a’  the  town, 

I  sigh’d,  and  said  amang  them  a’, 

‘Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison.’ 

O  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die? 

Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee? 

If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  nae  gie, 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown ! 

A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 
The  thought  o’  Mary  Morison. 

NOW  WESTLIN  WINDS. 

Commemorating  the  love  affair  with  Margaret 
Thomson,  which  ended  the  study  of  mensuration  at 
Kirkoswald  several  years  before. 

Now  westlin  winds  and  slaught’ring  guns 
Bring  autumn’s  pleasant  weather; 

The  moorcock  springs,  on  whirring  wings, 
Amang  the  blooming  heather: 

Now  waving  grain,  wide  o’er  the  plain. 
Delights  the  weary  farmer ; 

And  the  moon  shines  bright,  when  I  rove  at 
night 

To  muse  upon  my  charmer. 


42 


BURNS 


The  partridge  loves  the  fruitful  fells ; 
The  plover  loves  the  mountains ; 

The  woodcock  haunts  the  lonely  dells; 
The  soaring  hern  the  fountains : 

Thro’  lofty  groves  the  cushat  roves, 
The  path  o’  man  to  shun  it; 

The  hazel  bush  o’erhangs  the  thrush, 
The  spreading  thorn  the  linnet. 

Thus  ev’ry  kind  their  pleasure  find. 

The  savage  and  the  tender; 

Some  social  join,  and  leagues  combine. 
Some  solitarj^  wander : 

Avaunt,  away,  the  cruel  sway ! 

Tyrannic  man’s  dominion ! 

The  sportsman’s  joy,  the  murd’ring  cry. 
The  fluct’ring,  gory  pinion! 

But,  Peggy  dear,  the  evening’s  clear. 
Thick  flies  the  skimming  swallow. 

The  sky  is  blue,  the  fields  in  view 
All  fading-green  and  yellow : 

Come  let  us  stray  our  gladsome  way. 
And  view  the  charms  of  nature; 

The  rustling  corn,  the  fruited  thorn. 
And  ilka  happy  creature. 

We’ll  gently  walk,  and  sweetly  talk. 
While  the  silent  moon  shines  clearly; 

I’ll  clasp  thy  waist,  and,  fondly  prest. 
Swear  how  I  lo’e  thee  dearly : 

Not  vernal  show’rs  to  budding  flow’rs. 
Not  Autumn  to  the  farmer. 


LOVE  SONGS 


43 


So  dear  can  be  as  thou  to  me, 

My  fair,  my  lovely  charmer ! 

GREEN  GROW  THE  RASHES,  O. 

There’s  nought  but  care  on  ev’ry  han’, 

In  ev’ry  hour  that  passes,  O : 

What  signifies  the  life  o’  man. 

An’  ’t  were  na  for  the  lasses,  O. 
CHORUS. 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  O ; 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  O ; 

The  sweetest  hours  that  e’er  I  spend. 

Are  spent  among  the  lasses,  O. 

The  war’ly  race  may  riches  chase. 

An’  riches  still  may  fly  them,  O ; 

An’  tho’  at  last  they  catch  them  fast. 
Their  hearts  can  ne’er  enjoy  them,  O. 

But  gie  me  a  cannie  hour  at  e’en. 

My  arms  about  my  dearie,  O, 

An’  war’ly  cares  an’  war’ly  men 
May  a’  gae  tapsalteerie.  Oh ! 

For  you  sae  douce,  ye  sneer  at  this ; 

Ye’re  nought  but  senseless  asses,  O: 
The  wisest  man  the  warl’  e’er  saw. 

He  dearly  lov’d  the  lasses,  O. 

Auld  Nature  swears,  the  lovely  dears 
Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  O : 

Her  prentice  han’  she  try’d  on  man, 

An’  then  she  made  the  lasses,  O. 


44 


BURNS 


THE  LAMENT 

OCCASIONED  BY  THE  UNFORTUNATE  ISSUE  OF  A  FRIEND’S 

AMOUR. 

Written  on  hearing  of  the  first  trouble  of  Jean 
Armour.  Though  hardly  a  song,  it  is  an  item  in 
Burns’s  love  hist''’'y. 

Alas!  how  oft  does  Goodness  wound  itself, 

And  sweet  Affection  prove  the  spring  of  woe! 

Home. 

O  thou  pale  Orb,  that  silent  shines. 

While  care-untroubled  mortals  sleep! 

Thou  seest  a  wretch  that  inly  pines. 

And  wanders  here  to  wail  and  weep! 

With  woe  I  nightly  vigils  keep. 

Beneath  thy  wan,  unwarming  beam; 

And  mourn,  in  lamentation  deep. 

How  life  and  love  are  all  a  dream. 

I  joyless  view  thy  rays  adorn 

The  faintly-marked,  distant  hill; 

I  joyless  view  thy  trembling  horn. 

Reflected  in  the  gurgling  rill : 

My  fondly-fluttering  heart,  be  still ! 

Thou  busy  pow’r.  Remembrance,  cease! 

Ah !  must  the  agonizing  thrill 
For  ever  bar  returning  peace ! 

No  idly-feign’d  poetic  pains. 

My  sad,  love-lorn  lamentings  claim; 

No  shepherd’s  pipe — Arcadian  strains; 

No  fabled  tortures,  quaint  and  tame: 


LOVE  SONGS 


45 


The  plighted  faith;  the  mutual  flame; 

The  oft  attested  Pow’rs  above; 

The  promis’d  father’s  tender  name : 

These  were  the  pledges  of  my  love ! 

Encircled  in  her  clasping  arms, 

How  have  the  raptur’d  moments  flown! 
How  have  I  wish’d  for  fortune’s  charms. 
For  her  dear  sake,  and  hers  alone! 

And  must  I  think  it !  is  she  gone. 

My  secret  heart’s  exulting  boast? 

And  does  she  heedless  hear  my  groan? 

And  is  she  ever,  ever  lost? 

Oh !  can  she  bear  so  base  a  heart. 

So  lost  to  honour,  lost  to  truth. 

As  from  the  fondest  lover  part. 

The  plighted  husband  of  her  youth ! 

Alas !  life’s  path  may  be  unsmooth ! 

Her  way  may  lie  thro’  rough  distress ! 
Then,  who  her  pangs  and  pains  will  soothe. 
Her  sor’-ows  share,  and  make  them  less? 

Ye  winged  hours  that  o’er  us  past. 
Enraptur’d  more,  the  more  enjoy’d. 

Your  dear  remembrance  in  my  breast. 

My  fondly-treasur’d  thoughts  employ’d. 
That  breast,  how  dreary  now,  and  void. 
For  her  too  scanty  once  of  room ! 

Ev’n  ev’ry  ray  of  hope  destroy’d. 

And  not  a  wish  to  gild  the  gloom ! 

The  morn  that  warns  th’  approaching  day. 
Awakes  me  up  to  toil  and  woe : 


46 


BURNS 


I  see  the  hours  in  long  array, 

That  I  must  suffer,  lingering,  slow. 

Full  many  a  pang,  and  many  a  throe. 

Keen  recollection’s  direful  train. 

Must  wring  my  soul,  ere  Phoebus,  low, 

Shall  kiss  the  distant,  western  main. 

And  when  my  nightly  couch  I  try, 
Sore-harass’d  out  with  care  and  grief. 

My  toil-beat  nerves,  and  tear-worn  eye. 

Keep  watchings  with  the  nightly  thief: 

Or  if  I  slumber.  Fancy,  chief. 

Reigns,  haggard-wild,  in  sore  affright : 

Ev’n  day,  all-bitter,  brings  relief. 

From  such  a  horror-breathing  night. 

0 !  thou  bright  Queen,  who  o’er  th’  expanse 
Now  highest  reign’st,  with  boundless  sway! 

Oft  has  thy  silent-marking  glance 
Observ’d  us,  fondly  wand’ring,  stray ! 

The  time,  unheeded,  sped  away. 

While  love’s  luxurious  pulse  beat  high. 

Beneath  thy  silver-gleaming  ray,  ^ 

To  mark  the  mutual-kindling  eye. 

Oh !  scenes  in  strong  remembrance  set ! 
Scenes,  never,  never  to  return ! 

Scenes,  if  in  stupor  I  forget. 

Again  I  feel,  again  I  burn ! 

From  ,ev’ry  joy  and  pleasure  torn. 

Life’s  weary  vale  Fll  wander  thro’; 

And  hopeless,  comfortless.  I’ll  mourn 
A  faithless  woman’s  broken  vow. 


LOVE  SONGS 


47 


FLOW  GENTLY,  SWEET  AFTON. 

This  is  the  first  of  the  poems  to  Mary  Campbell, 
or  Highland  Mary,”  composed  probably  when  he 
first  began  to  think  of  her  after  the  Armours  had 
thrown  him  off,  in  the  spring  of  1786. 

Flow  gently.  Sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes! 
Flow  gently.  I’ll  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise! 

My  Mary’s  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream — 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream ! 

Thou  stock-dove  whose  echo  resounds  thro’  the  glen, 
Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  den. 

Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  forbear — 
I  charge  you,  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair! 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighbouring  hills. 

Far  mark  d  with  the  courses  of  clear,  winding  rills ! 
There  daily  I  wander,  as  noon  rises  high. 

My  flocks  and  my  Mary’s  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  vallies  below. 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses  blow 
There  oft,  as  mild  Ev’ning  weeps  over  the  lea. 

The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides. 

And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides ! 

How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave. 

As,  gathering  sweet  flowerets,  she  stems  thy  clear 
wave ! 


48 


BURNS 


Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  btaes! 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays ! 

My  Mary’s  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  Stream- 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream  1 

THE  HIGHLAND  LASSIE. 

This  song  was  apparently  written  soon  after  the 
last,  when  Burns  was  planning  to  go  to  Jamaica. 

Nae  gentle  dames,  tho’  e’er  sae  fair. 

Shall  ever  be  my  Muse’s  care ; 

Their  titles  a’  are  empty  show; 

Gie  me  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

CHORUS. 

Within  the  glen  sae  bushy,  O, 

Aboon  the  plain  sae  rushy,  O, 

I  set  me  down  wi’  right  good  will 
To  sing  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Oh,  were  yon  hills  and  valleys  mine,  ' 

Yon  palace  and  yon  gardens  fine! 

The  world  then  the  love  should  know 
I  bear  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Within  the  glen,  &c. 

But  fickle  fortune  frowns  on  me. 

And  I  maun  cross  the  raging  sea; 

But  while  my  crimson  currents  flow 
I’ll  love  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Within  the  glen,  &c. 


LOVE  SONGS 


49 


Altho’  thro’  foreign  climes  I  range, 

I  know  her  heart  will  never  change, 

For  her  bosom  burns  with  honour’s  glow. 

My  faithful  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Within  the  glen,  &c. 

For  her  I’ll  dare  the  billow’s  roar. 

For  her  I’ll  trace  a  distant  shore, 

That  Indian  wealth  may  lustre  throw 
Around  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Within  the  glen,  &c. 

She  has  my  heart,  she  has  my  hand. 

By  sacred  truth  and  honour’s  band ! 

Till  the  mortal  stroke  shall  lay  me  low, 

I’m  thine,  my  Highland  lassie,  O. 

Fareweel  the  glen  sae  bushy,  O! 

Fareweel  the  plain  sae  rushy,  O! 

To  other  lands  I  now  must  go, 

To  sing  my  Highland  lassie,  O! 

A  PRAYER  FOR  MARY. 

This  was  found  among  his  papers  after  his  death. 

Powers  celestial!  whose  protection 
Ever  guards  the  virtuous  fair. 

While  in  distant  climes  I  wander. 

Let  my  Mary  be  your  care : 

Let  her  form  so  fair  and  faultless— 

Fair  and  faultless  as  your  own — 

Let  my  Mary’s  kindred  spirit 
Draw  your  choicest  influence  down ! 


60 


BURNS 


Make  the  gales  you  waft  around  her 
Soft  and  peaceful  as  her  breast; 

Breathing  in  the  breeze  that  fans  her, 

Soothe  her  bosom  into  rest: 

Guardian  angels !  O  protect  her, 

When  in  distant  lands  I  roam ; 

To  realms  unknown  while  fate  exiles  me. 

Make  her  bosom  still  my  home ! 

WILL  YE  GO  TO  THE  INDIES,  MY  MARY? 

Burns  told  Mr.  Thomson  in  1792,  “In  my  very 
early  years,  when  I  was  thinking  of  going  to  the 
West  Indies,  I  took  the  following  farewell  of  a  dear 
girl.” 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 

And  leave  auld  Scotia’s  shore? 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 

Across  th’  Atlantic  roar? 

O,  sweet  grows  the  lime  and  the  orange. 

And  the  apple  on  the  pine; 

But  a’  the  charms  o’  the  Indies 
Can  never  equal  thine. 

I  hae  sworn  by  the  Heavens  to  my  Mary, 

I  hae  sworn  by  the  Heavens  to  be  true. 

And  sae  may  the  Heavens  forget  me. 

When  I  forget  my  vow ! 

O,  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary, 

And  plight  me  your  lily-white  hand ! 

O,  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary, 

Before  I  leave  Scotia’s  strand ! 


LOVE  SONGS  51 

We  hae  plighted  our  troth,  my  Mary, 

In  mutual  affection  to  join; 

And  curst  be  the  cause  that  shall  part  us ! 

The  hour  and  the  moment  o’  time! 

THO’  CRUEL  FATE. 

These  lines,  found  in  Burns’s  commonplace  book, 
refer  to  Jean  Armour,  and  were  doubtless  written 
at  this  period,  when  he  was  thinking  more  of  Jean 
than  of  Mary. 

Tho’  cruel  fate  should  bid  us  part 
Far  as  the  pole  and  line. 

Her  dear  idea  round  my  heart 
Should  tenderly  entwine. 

Tho’  mountains  rise,  and  deserts  howl, 

And  oceans  roar  between. 

Yet  dearer  than  my  deathless  soul 
I  still  would  love  my  Jean. 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  BLANK  LEAF 

OF  A  COPY  OF  THE  FIRST  EDITION  [oF  HIS  POEMS] 
PRESENTED  TO  AN  OLD  SWEETHEART, 

THEN  MARRIED. 

/ 

^  Dr.  Currie  says  this  was  Mrs.  Neilson,  the  Peg¬ 
gie  Thomson  of  Kirkoswald. 

Once  fondly  lov’d,  and  still  remember’d  dear. 
Sweet  early  object  of  my  youthful  vows. 

Accept  this  mark  of  friendship,  warm,  sincere; 
Friendship !  ’tis  all  cold  duty  now  allows. 


52 


BURNS 


And  when  you  read  the  simple  artless  rhymes, 
One  friendly  sigh  for  him,  he  asks  no  more. 
Who  distant  burns  in  flaming  torrid  climes, 

Or  haply  lies  beneath  th’  Atlantic  roar. 

BONIE  BOON. 

This  is  the  first  and  best  version  of  a  song  writ¬ 
ten  in  January,  1787,  to  Peggy  K,  a  lively  young 
lady  he  had  met  at  the  house  of  a  friend  in  Mauch- 
line  a  year  or  two  before. 

Ye  flowery  banks  o’  bonie  Boon 
How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair! 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds. 

And  I  sae  fu’  o’  care. 

Thou’ll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird, 

That  sings  upon  the  bough ; 

Thou  minds  me  o’  the  happy  days. 

When  my  fause  luve  was  true. 

Thou’ll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird. 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate ; 

For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang. 

And  wist  na  o’  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  rov’d  by  bonie  Boon, 

To  see  the  woodbine  twine. 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o’  its  love, 

And  sae  did  I  o’  mine. 

Wi’  lightsome  heart  I  pu’d  a  rose 
Frae  off  its  thorny  tree; 

And  my  fause  luver  staw  the  rose 
But  left  the  thorn  wi’  me. 


LOVE  SONGS 


53 


WHERE,  BRAVING  ANGRY  WINTER’S 
STORMS. 

Addressed  to  Margaret  Chalmers,  one  of  the 
young  ladies  he  met  early  in  his  second  winter  in 
Edinburgh,  1787. 

Where,  braving  angry  winter’s  storms, 

The  lofty  Ochils  rise. 

Far  in  their  shade  my  Peggys’  charms 
First  blest  my  wondering  eyes : 

As  one  who  by  some  savage  stream 
A  lonely  gem  surveys. 

Astonish’d  doubly,  marks  it  beam 
With  art’s  most  polish’d  blaze. 

Blest  be  the  wild,  sequester’d  glade. 

And  blest  the  day  and  hour. 

Where  Peggy’s  charms  I  first  survey’d. 

When  first  I  felt  their  pow’r ! 

The  tyrant  Death  with  grim  control 
May  seize  my  fleeting  breath. 

But  tearing  Peggy  from  my  soul 
Must  be  a  stronger  death. 

MY  PEGGY’S  FACE. 

A  second  song  to  the  same  Miss  Chalmers. 

My  Peggy’s  face,  my  Peggy’s  form. 

The  frost  of  hermit  age  might  warm; 

My  Peggy’s  worth,  my  Peggy’s  mind. 

Might  charm  the  first  of  human  kind. 

I  love  my  Peggy’s  angel  air. 

Her  face  so  truly,  heavenly  fair. 


54 


BURNS 


Her  native  grace  so  void  of  art; 

But  I  adore  my  Peggy’s  heart. 

The  lily’s  hue,  the  rose’s  dye, 

The  kindling  lustre  of  an  eye; 

Who  but  owns  their  magic  sway. 

Who  but  knows  they  all  decay! 

The  tender  thrill,  the  pitying  tear, 

The  generous  purpose,  nobly  dear. 

The  gentle  look  that  rage  disarms, 

These  are  all  immortal  charms. 

BANKS  OF  DEVON. 

This  song  was  addressed  to  Charlotte  Hamilton, 
cousin  of  Margaret  Chalmers.  Which  Burns  liked 
the  better  is  a  matter  of  dispute,  but  Miss  Chalmers 
told  Thomas  Campbell,  the  poet,  that  Burns  made 
a  proposal  of  marriage  to  her. 

How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear-winding  Devon, 
With  green-spreading  bushes,  and  flowers  bloom¬ 
ing  fair ! 

But  the  boniest  flower  on  the  banks  of  the  Devon 
Was  once  a  sweet  bud  on  the  braes  of  the  Ayr. 

Mild  be  the  sun  on  this  sweet  blushing  flower. 

In  the  gay  rosy  morn  as  it  bathes  in  the  dew! 

And  gentle  the  fall  of  the  soft  vernal  shower. 

That  steals  on  the  evening  each  leaf  to  renew. 

O,  spare  the  dear  blossom,  ye  orient  breezes. 

With  chill  hoary  wing  as  ye  usher  the  dawn! 

And  far  be  thou  distant,  thou  reptile  that  seizes 
The  verdure  and  pride  of  the  garden  and  lawn! 


LOVE  SONGS 


55 


Let  Bourbon  exult  in  his  gay  gilded  lilies. 

And  England  triumphant  display  her  proud  rose ; 
A  fairer  than  either  adorns  the  green  valleys 
Where  Devon,  sweet  Devon,  meandering  flows. 

I  LOVE  MY  JEAN. 

Burns  was  thirty  when,  in  1788,  he  decided  to 
accept  Jean  Armour  as  his  wife  and  take  her  with 
him  to  the  farm  at  Ellisland.  This  song  was  writ¬ 
ten  at  that  time,  and  is  one  of  his  sweetest. 

Of  a’  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I  dearly  like  the  west. 

For  there  the  bonie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo’e  best: 

There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row. 

And  monie  a  hill  between ; 

But  day  and  night  my  fancy’s  flight 
Is  ever  wi’  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair; 

I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu’  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air; 

There’s  not  a  bonie  flower  that  springs 
By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green ; 

There’s  not  a  bonie  bird  that  sings. 

But  minds  me  o’  my  Jean. 


56 


BURNS 


I  HAE  A  WIFE  O’  MY  AIN. 

When  he  had  installed  Jean  in  the  new  home  he 
wrote  the  following,  in  imitation  of  an  old  ballad. 

I  hae  a  wife  o’  my  ain, 

I’ll  partake  wi’  naebody: 

I’ll  take  cuckold  frae  nane, 

I’ll  gie  cuckold  to  naebody. 

I  hae  a  penny  to  spend, 

There — thanks  to  naebody! 

I  hae  naething  to  lend. 

I’ll  borrow  frae  naebody. 

I  am  naebody’s  lord. 

I’ll  be  slave  to  naebody. 

I  hae  a  guid  braid  sword. 

I’ll  tak  dunts  frae  naebody. 

I’ll  be  merry  and  free. 

I’ll  be  sad  for  naebody. 

Naebody  cares  for  me, 

I  care  for  naebody. 

MY  BONIE  MARY. 

Burns  did  not  claim  this  song  as  his  own,  but 
he  afterward  acknowledged  that  all  but  the  first 
four  lines  were  his  own,  and  even  these  first  lines 
were  considerably  changed. 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o’  wine. 

An’  fill  it  in  a  silver  tassie; 

That  I  may  drink  before  I  go, 

A  service  to  my  bonie  lassie. 


LOVE  SONGS  57 

The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  o’  Leith; 

Fu’  loud  the  wind  blaws  frae  the  ferry; 

The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-law, 

And  I  maun  leave  my  bonie  Mary. 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly, 

The  glittering  spears  are  rankM  ready; 

The  shouts  o’  war  are  heard  afar. 

The  battle  closes  thick  and  bloody; 

But  it  s  no  the  roar  o’  sea  or  shore 
Wad  mak  me  langer  wish  to  tarry; 

Nor  shout  o’  war  that’s  heard  afar. 

It’s  leaving  thee,  my  bonie  Mary. 

TO  MARY  IN  HEAVEN. 

Three  years  after  tlie  death  of  Mary  Campbell, 
one  day  at  the  end  of  the  harvest.  Burns  was  re¬ 
minded  of  her.  Mrs.  Burns  told  Lockhart  that 
a.fter  working  all  day  in  the  harvest,  “as  the  twi¬ 
light  deepened,  he  appeared  to  grow  Very  sad  about 
something,’  and  at  length  wandered  out  in  the 
barnyard,  to  which  his  wife,  in  her  anxiety,  fol¬ 
lowed  him,  entreating  him  in  vain  to  observe  that 
frost  had  set  in,  and  to  return  to  the  fireside.  On 
being  again  and  again  requested  to  do  so,  he  prom- 
ised  compliance,  but  still  remained  where  he  was, 
striding  up  and  down  slowly,  and  contemplating  the 
sky,  which  was  singularly  clear  and  starry.  At  last 
Mrs.  Burns  found  him  stretched  on  a  mass  of 
straw,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  beautiful  planet, 
that  shone  like  another  moon,’  and  prevailed  on 


58 


BURNS 


him  to  come  in.  He  immediately,  on  entering  the 
house,  called  for  his  desk,  and  wrote  exactly  as 
they  now  stand,  with  all  the  ease  of  one  copying 
from  memory,  these  sublime  and  pathetic  verses.” 

Thou  ling’ring  star  ^with  less’ning  ray, 

That  lov’st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 

Again  thou  usher’st  in  the  day. 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 

O  Mary,  dear  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 

See’st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid? 

Hear’st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast? 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget. 

Can  I  forget  the  hallow’d  grove. 

Where,  by  the  winding  Ayr,  we  met 
To  live  one  day  of  parting  love? 

Eternity  cannot  efface 
Those  records  dear  of  transports  past. 

Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace — 

Ah !  little  thought  we  't  was  our  last ! 

Ayr,  gurgling,  kiss’d  his  pebbled  shore, 

O’erhung  with  wild  woods  thickening  green; 

The  fragrant  birch  and  hawthorn  hoar 
’Twin’d  amorous  round  the  raptur’d  scene; 

The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest. 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray. 

Till  too,  too  soon  the  glowing  west 
Proclaim’d  the  speed  of  winged  day. 


LOVE  SONGS  59 

Still  o’er  these  scenes  my  mem’ry  wakes, 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser-care. 

,  Time  but  th’  impression  stronger  makes, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 

O  Mary,  dear  departed  shade! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 

See’st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid.^ 

Hear’st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  ? 

THE  BLUE-EYED  LASSIE. 

Burns  was  visiting  a  Mr.  Jeffrey,  a  clergyman  of 
Lochlaben,  and  his  blue-eyed  daughter  did  the  hon¬ 
ors  of  the  table.  Next  morning  he  presented  this* 
song. 

I  gaed  a  waefu’  gate  yestreen, 

A  gate,  I  fear.  I’ll  dearly  rue ; 

I  gat  my  death  frae  twa  sweet  een, 

Twa  lovely  een  o’  bonie  blue. 

’Twas  not  her  golden  ringlets  bright. 

Her  lips  like  roses  wat  wi’  dew, 

Her  heaving  bosom  lily-white; — 

It  was  her  een  sae  bonie  blue. 

She  talk’d,  she  smil’d,  my  heart  she  wyl’d. 

She  charm’d  my  soul  I  wist  na  how ; 

And  ay  the  stound,  the  deadly  wound, 

Cam  frae  her  een  sae  bonie  blue. 

But  spare  to  speak,  and  spare  to  speed; 

She’ll  aiblins  listen  to  my  vow ; 

Should  she  refuse.  I’ll  lay  my  dead 
To  her  twa  een  sae  bonie  blue. 


60 


BURNS 


TIBBIE  DUNBAR. 

Contributed  to  Johnson’s  Museum,  and  appar¬ 
ently  not  connected  with  his  personal  history. 

O  wilt  thou  go  wi’  me,  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar? 

O  wilt  thou  go’  wi’  me,  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar? 
Wilt  thou  ride  on  a  horse,  or  be  drawn  in  a  car, 
Or  walk  by  my  side,  O  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar  ? 

I  care  na  thy  daddie,  his  lands  and  his  money, 

I  care  na  thy  kin,  sae  high  and  sae  lordly : 

But  say  thou  wilt  hae  me  for  better  for  waur. 

And  come  in  thy  coatie,  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar. 

JOHN  ANDERSON  MY  JO. 

The  best  song  Burns  wrote  in  1790,  his  thirty- 
first  year. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent, 

Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonie  brow  was  brent; 

But  now  your  brow  is  bald,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw; 

But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither; 

And  monie  a  canty  day,  John, 

We’ve  had  wi’  ane  anither: 

Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we’ll  go. 

And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 


LOVE  SONGS 


61 


MY  HEART’S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS. 

The  first  stanza  was  not  written  by  Burns.  He 
found  it,  the  one  beautiful  spot  in  an  old  string  of 
^oss^^cl,  and  made  it  the  basis  of  his  own  beauti¬ 
ful  song. 

X  CHORUS. 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here. 
My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer, 
A-chasing  the  wild  deer  and  following  the  roe— 
My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands,  wherever  I  go ! 

Farewell  to  the  Highlands,  farewell  to  the  North, 
The  birthplace  of  valour,  the  country  of  worth ! 
Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove. 

The  hills  of  the  Highlands  forever  I  love. 

Farewell  to  the  mountains  high  cover’d  with  snow. 
Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  valleys  below. 
Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild-hanging  woods. 
Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pouring  floods! 

THE  BONIE  WEE  THING. 

Bonie  wee  thing,  cannie  wee  thing. 

Lovely  wee  thing,  was  thou  mine, 

I  wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom. 

Lest  my  jewel  I  should  tine. 

Wishfully  I  look  and  languish 
In  that  bonie  face  o’  thine; 

And  my  heart  it  stounds  wi’  anguish. 

Lest  my  wee  thing  be  na  mine. 


BURNS 


S2 


Wit,  and  grace,  and  love,  and  beauty. 

In  ae  constellation  shine; 

To  adore  thee  is  my  duty, 

Goddess  o’  this  soul  o’  mine! 

Bonie  wee,  &c. 

FAREWELL  TO  NANCY. 

Burns  wrote  several  songs  to  Clarinda,  the  Mrs. 
M’Lehose  he  was  so  passionately  devoted  to  for  a 
few  weeks  in  his  second  winter  in  Edinburgh,  but 
this  is  the  only  one  that  was  really  of  the  first 
water.  This  lady  was  about  to  go  to  Jamaica  to 
find  her  husband,  and  relented  toward  Burns  enough 
to  admit  him  to  a  visit,  December  6th,  1795,  four 
years  after  her  first  meeting  with  him.  This  beau¬ 
tiful  song  doubtless  records  the  passionate  feelings 
incident  to  that  meeting. 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever! 

Ae  fareweel,  alas,  for  ever! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  Til  pledge  thee. 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I’ll  wage  thee. 

Who  shall  say  that  fortune  grieves  him 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him? 

Me,  nae  cheerfu’  twinkle  lights  me. 

Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I’ll  ne’er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 

Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy; 

But  to  see  her,  was  to  love  her; 

Love  but  her.  and  love  for  ever. 


LOVE  SONGS 


53 


Had  we  never  lov’d  sae  kindly, 

Had  we  never  lov’d  sae  blindly, 

Never  met — or  never  parted. 

We  had  ne’er  been  broken  hearted. 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  first  and  fairest! 
Fare  thee  weel,  thou  best  and  dearest ! 
Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure. 

Peace,  enjoyment,  love,  and  pleasure. 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever; 

Ae  farewell,  alas,  for  ever ! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I  pledge  thee. 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I’ll  wage  thee. 


MY  NANNIE’S  AWA. 

This  was  addressed  to  Clarinda  the  following 
summer,  during  her  absence  in  the  West  Indies. 

Now  in  her  green  mantle  blythe  Nature  arrays, 

And  listens  the  lambkins  that  bleat  o’er  the  braes. 
While  birds  warble  welcomes  in  ilka  green  shaw; 

But  to  me  it’s  delightless — my  Nannie’s  awa. 

The  snaw-drap  and  primrose  our  woodlands  adorn. 
And  violets  bathe  in  the  weet  o’  the  morn; 

They  pain  my  sad  bosom,  sae  sweetly  they  blaw. 

They  mind  me  o’  Nannie — my  Nannie’s  awa. 

Thou  laverock  that  springs  frae  the  dews  o’  the  lawn. 
The  shepherd  to  warn  o’  the  grey-breaking  dawn. 

And  thou,  mellow  mavis,  that  hails  the  night-£a’, 

Gie  over  for  pity — my  Nannie’s  awa. 


64 


BURNS 


Come  autumn  sae  pensive,  in  yellow  and  grey, 

And  soothe  me  wi’  tidings  o’  nature’s  decay ; 

The  dark,  dreary  winter,  and  wild-driving  snaw, 
Alane  can  delight  me — now  Nannie’s  awa. 

BONIE  LESLEY. 

Mr.  Bailie,  with  his  two  daughters,  passed  through 
Dumfries  and  Burns  accompanied  them  on  their 
way  for  fourteen  or  fifteen  miles,  and  dined  and 
spent  the  day  with  them.  On  his  return  he  wrote 
this  song,  parodying  an  old  ballad,  “My  Bonnie 
Lizzie  Baillie.” 

O  saw  ye  bonie  Lesley 
As  she  gaed  o’er  the  border? 

She’s  gane,  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther. 

To  see  her  is  to  love  her. 

And  love  but  her  for  ever; 

For  Nature  made  her  what  she  is. 

And  ne’er  made  sic  anither ! 

Thou  art  a  queen,  Fair  Lesley, 

Thy  subjects  we,  before  thee: 

Thou  art  divine.  Fair  Lesley, 

The  hearts  o’  men  adore  thee. 

The  Deil  he  could  na  scaith  thee. 

Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee ; 

He’d  look  into  thy  bonie  face. 

And  say,  T  canna  wrang  thee.’ 


LOVE  SONGS 


66 


The  Powers  aboon  will  tent  thee; 

Misfortune  sha’na  steer  thee; 

Thou’rt  like  themselves  sae  lovely, 

That  ill  they’ll  ne’er  let  near  thee. 

Return  again,  Fair  Lesley, 

Return  to  Caledonie ! 

That  we  may  brag,  we  hae  a  lass 
There’s  nane  again  sae  bonie. 

MY  WIFE’S  A  WINSOME  WEE  THING. 

Written  to  fit  the  air  “My  wife’s  a  wanton  wee 
thing.” 

I  never  saw  a  fairer, 

I  never  lo’ed  a  dearer. 

And  neist  my  heart  I’ll  wear  her, 

For  fear  my  jewel  tine. 

CHORUS. 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing. 

She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing. 

She  is  a  lo’esome  wee  thing, 

This  sweet  wee  wife  o’  mine! 

The  warld’s  wrack,  we  share  o’t; 

The  warstle  and  the  care  o’t, 

Wi’  her  I’ll  blythely  bear  it. 

And  think  my  lot  divine. 


66 


BURNS 


HIGHLAND  MARY. 

Written  in  1792,  and  Burns  in  a  letter  to  Mr. 
Thomson  says,  “The  subject  of  the  song  is  one  of 
the  most  interesting  passages  of  my  youthful  days” 
— his  love  for  Mary  Campbell. 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 
The  castle  o’  Montgomery, 

Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 
Your  waters  never  drumlie ! 

There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry; 

For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 
O’  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloom’d  the  gay  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn’s  blossom. 

As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 
I  clasp’d  her  to  my  bosom ! 

The  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings, 

Flew  o’er  me  and  my  dearie; 

For  dear  to  me,  as  light  and  life, 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi’  monie  a  vow,  and  lock’d  embrace, 

Our  parting  was  fu’  tender; 

And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder ; 

But  oh !  fell  death’s  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early ! 

Now  green’s  the  sod,  and  cauld’s  the  clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary ! 


LOVE  SONGS 


67 


O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I  aft  hae  kiss’d  sae  fondly ! 

And  closed  for  ay  the  sparkling  glance, 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly ! 

And  mould’ring  now  in  silent  dust. 

That  heart  that  lo’ed  me  dearly ! 

But  still  within  my  bosom’s  core 
Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 

DUNCAN  GRAY. 

Burns  got  the  suggestion  for  this  delicious  ballad 
from  a  rude  song  in  Johnson’s  Museum,  the  name 
only  being  retained. 

Duncan  Gray  came  here  to  woo  ' 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t!) 

On  blythe  Yule-Night  when  we  were  fou 
(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t!) 

Maggie  coost  her  head  fu’  high. 

Look’d  asklent  and  unco  skeigh, 

Gart  poor  Duncan  stand  abeigh — 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t ! 

Duncan  fleech’d,  and  Duncan  pray’d 
(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t!), 

Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  Craig 
(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t!). 

Duncan  sigh’d  baith  out  and  in, 

Grat  his  een  baith  bleer’t  an  blin', 

Spak  o’  lowpin  o’er  a  linn — 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t ! 


68 


BURNS 


Time  and  chance  are  but  a  tide 
(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t!)  : 

Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide 
(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t!). 

‘Shall  I  like  a  fool,’  quoth  he, 

‘For  a  haughty  hizzie  die? 

She  may  gae  to — France  for  me!’ 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t ! 

How  it  comes,  let  doctors  tell 
(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t!)  : 

Meg  grew  sick,  as  he  grew  hale 
(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t!). 

Something  in  her  bosom  wrings, 

For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings, 

And  O  !,  her  een  they  spak  sic  things ! — » 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t ! 

Duncan  was  a  lad  o’  grace 
(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t!) 

Maggie’s  was  a  piteous  case 
(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t!)  : 

Duncan  could  na  be  her  death. 

Swelling  pity  smoor’d  his  wrath; 

Now  they’re  crouse  and  canty  baith — 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o’t ! 

GALLA  WATER. 

Burns  first  devoted  himself  to  improving  a  song 
in  the  Museum  about  the  lasses  of  Galla  Water,  and 
finally  wrote  this  beautiful  set  of  verses. 

There’s  braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  braes. 
That  wander  thro’  the  blooming  heather ; 


LOVE  SONGS 


69 


But  Yarrow  braes  nor  Ettrick  shaws 
Can  match  the  lads  o’  Galla  Water. 

But  there,  is  ane,  a  secret  ane, 

Aboon  them  a’  I  lo’e  him  better; 

And  I’ll  be  his,  and  he’ll  be  mine, 

The  bonie  lad  o’  Galla  Water. 

Altho’  his  daddie  was  nae  laird. 

And  tho’  I  hae  nae  meikle  tocher; 

Yet  rich  in  kindest,  truest  love. 

We’ll  tent  our  flocks  by  Galla  Water. 

It  ne’er  was  wealth,  it  ne’er  was  wealth. 

That  coft  contentment,  peace  or  pleasure; 

The  bands  and  bliss  o’  mutual  love, 

O  that’s  the  chiefest  warl’s  treasure ! 

0,  WHISTLE,  AN’  I’LL  COME  TO  YE,  MY  LAD. 

In  August,  1793,  Burns  wrote  to  Thomson,  “Is 
‘Whistle  and  I’ll  come  to  you,  my  lad,’  one  of 
your  airs?  I  admire  it  much,  and  yesterday  I  set 
the  following  verses  to  it.” 

CHORUS. 

O,  whistle  an’  I’ll  come  to  ye,  my  lad! 

O,  whistle  an’  I’ll  come  to  ye,  my  lad! 

Tho’  father  an’  mother  an’  a’  should  gae  mad, 

O,  whistle  an’  I’ll  come  to  ye,  my  lad  I 

But  warily  tent  when  ye  come  to  court  me. 

And  come  nae  unless  the.  back-yett  be  a-jee; 


70 


BURNS 


Syne  up  the  back-style,  and  let  naebody  see, 

And  come  as  ye  were  na  comin  to  me, 

And  come  as  ye  were  na  comin  to  me ! 

At  kirk,  or  at  market,  whene’er  ye  meet  me, 

Gang  by  me  as  tho’  that  ye  car’d  na  a  flie ; 

But  steal  me  a  blink  o’  your  bonie  black  e’e. 

Yet  look  as  ye  were  na  lookin  to  me. 

Yet  look  as  ye  were  na  lookin  to  me! 

Ay  vow  and  protest  that  ye  care  na  for  me, 

And  whyles  ye  may  lightly  my  beauty  a  wee; 
But  court  na  anither  though  joken  ye  be. 

For  fear  that  she  wyle  your  fancy  frae  me. 

For  fear  that  she  wyle  your  fancy  frae  me ! 

THE  LOVELY  LASS  OF  INVERNESS. 

The  first  half-stanza  is  from  an  older  song,  which 
Burns  improved  upon. 

The  lovely  lass  of  Inverness, 

Nae  joy  nor  pleasure  can  she  see; 

For  e’en  to  morn  she  cries  ‘Alas!’ 

And  ay  the  saut  tear  blin’s  her  e’e : — 

‘Drumossie  moor,  Drumossie  day — 

A  waefu’  day  it  was  to  me ! 

For  there  I  lost  my  father  dear. 

My  father  dear  and  brethren  three. 

Their  winding-sheet  the  bluidy  clay. 

Their  graves  are  growin  green  to  see. 

And  by  them  lies  the  dearest  lad 
That  ever  blest  a  woman’s  e’e. 


LOVE  SONGS 


71 


Now  wae  to  thee,  'hou  cruel  lord, 

A  bluidy  man  I  trow  thou  be. 

For  monie  a  heart  thou  hast  made  sair 
That  ne’er  did  wrang  to  thine  or  thee ! 

A  RED,  RED  ROSE. 

Another  improvement  on  an  old  song,  1794. 

O,  my  luve  is  like  a  red,  red  rose. 

That’s  newly  sprung  in  June. 

O,  my  luve  is  like  the  melodie. 

That’s  sweetly  play’d  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonie  lass. 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I, 

And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a’  the  seas  gang  dry. 

Till  a’  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 

And  the  rocks  melt  wi’  the  sun! 

And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear. 

While  the  sands  o’  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  luve. 

And  fare  thee  weel  a  while ! 

And  I  will  come  again,  my  luve, 

Tho’  it  were  ten  thousand  mile! 

LASSIE  Wr  THE  LINT-WHITE  LOCKS. 

Now  Nature  deeds  the  flowery  lea. 

And  a’  is  young  and  sweet  like  thee, 

O,  wilt  thou  share  its  joys  wi’  me. 

And  say  thou’lt  be  my  dearie.  O? 


BURNS 


V2 


CHORUS. 

Lassie  wi’  the  lint-white  locks, 

Bonie  lassie,  artless  lassie. 

Wilt  thou  wi’  me  tent  the  flocks — 

Will  thou  be  my  dearie,  O? 

The  primrose  bank,  the  wimpling  burn, 

The  cuckoo  on  the  milk-white  thorn. 

The  wanton  lambs  at  early  morn 
Shall  welcome  thee,  my  dearie,  O. 

And  when  the  welcome  simmer  shower 
Has  cheer’d  ilk  drooping  little  flower. 

We’ll  to  the  breathing  woodbine-bower 
At  sultry  noon,  my  dearie,  O. 

When  Cynthia  lights  wi’  silver  ray 
The  weary  shearer’s  hameward  way. 

Thro’  yellow  waving  fields  we’ll  stray, 

And  talk  o’  love,  my  dearie,  O. 

And  when  the  howling  wintry  blast 
Disturbs  my  lassie’s  midnight  rest. 

Enclasped  to  my  faithful  breast, 

I’ll  comfort  thee,  my  dearie,  O. 

HEY  FOR  A  LASS  WE  A  TOCHER. 

Written  in  February,  1796,  shortly  before  Burns 
died. 

Awa  wi’  your  witchcraft  o’  beauty’s  alarms. 

The  slender  bit  beauty  you  grasp  in  your  arms : 

O,  gie  me  the  lass  that  has  acres  o’  charms, 

O,  gie  me  the  lass  wi’  the  weel-stockit  farms. 


LOVE  SONGS 


73 


CHORUS. 

Then  hey,  for  a  lass  wi’  a  tocher,  then  hey,  for  a 
lass  wi’  a  tocher, 

Then  hey,  for  a  lass  wi’  a  tocher ;  the  nice  yellow 
guineas  for  me. 

Your  beauty’s  a  flower  in  the  morning  that  blows, 
And  withers  the  faster,  the  faster  it  grows ; 

But  the  rapturous  charm  o’  the  bonie  green  knowes, 
Ilk  spring  they’re  new  deckit  wi’  bonie  white  yowes. 

And  e’en  when  this  beauty  your  bosom  has  blest, 
The  brightest  o’  beauty  may  cloy,  when  possest; 

But  the  sweet  yellow  darlings  wi’  Geordie  imprest, 
The  langer  ye  hae  them — the  mair  they’re  carest. 

O,  WERT  THOU  IN  THE  CAULD  BLAST. 

* 

Written  for  Miss  Jessie  Lewars,  who  attended 
Burns  in  his  last  illness.  He  asked  her  to  sit  down 
at  the  piano  and  play  over  any  air  that  pleased 
her,  and  he  would  write  a  song  to  it.  She  played 
“The  robin  came  to  the  wren’s  nest,”  and  after 
he  got  it  in  his  head  Burns  wrote  this  poem  to  that 
air. 

O,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast. 

On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea, 

My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt. 

I’d  shelter  thee.  I’d  shelter  thee. 

Or  did  misfortune’s  bitter  storms 
Around  thee  blaw,  around  thee  blaw, 

Thy  bield  should  be  my  bosom. 

To  share  it  a’,  to  share  it  a’. 


74 


BURNS 


Or  were  I  in  the  wildest  waste, 

Of  earth  and  air,  of  earth  and  air, 
The  desert  were  a  paradise. 

If  thou  wert  there,  if  thou  wert  there. 
Or  were  I  monarch  o’  the  globe, 

Wi’  thee  to  reign,  wi’  thee  to  reign. 
The  only  jewel  in  my  crown 

Wad  be  my  queen,  wad  be  my  queen. 

COMING  THROUGH  THE  RYE. 

Coming  through  the  rye,  poor  body, 
Coming  through  the  rye, 

She  draiglet  a’  her  petticoatie. 
Coming  through  the  ’•ye. 

Jenny’s  a’  wat,  poor  body, 

Jenny’s  seldom  dry; 

She  draiglet  a’  her  petticoatie, 
Coming  through  the  rye. 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body — 

Coming  through  the  rye; 

Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body — 

Need  a  body  cry? 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 
Coming  through  the  glen. 

Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body — 

Need  the  world  ken? 

Jenny’s  a’  wat,  poor  body; 

Jenny’s  seldom  dry; 

She  draiglet  a’  her  petticoatie. 
Coming  through  the  rye. 


OTHER  SONGS 


MTHERSON’S  FAREWELL. 

James  M’Pherson  was  a  noted  freebooter.  While 
he  lay  in  prison  under  sentence  of  death  he  com¬ 
posed  a  song  and  an  appropriate  air.  Burns  wrote 
this  song  to  the  same  air,  as  an  improvement,  in 
1788. 

Farewell,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong, 

The  wretch’s  destinie ! 

McPherson’s  time  will  not  be  long 
On  yonder  gallows-tree. 

•  CHORUS. 

Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly, 

Sae  dauntingly  gaed  he. 

He  play’d  a  spring,  and  danc’d  it  round 
Below  the  gallows-tree. 

O,  what  is  death  but  parting  breath? 

On  many  a  bloody  plain 
I’ve  dar’d  his  face,  and  in  this  place 
I  scorn  him  yet  again ! 

Untie  these  bands  from  off  my  hands, 

And  bring  to  me  my  sword, 

And  there’s  no  a  man  in  all  Scotland 
But  Pll  brave  him  at  a  word. 

I’ve  lived  a  life  of  sturt  and  strife; 

I  die  by  treacherie : 

75 


76 


BURNS 


It  burns  my  heart  I  must  depart, 

And  not  avenged  be. 

Now  farewell  light,  thou  sunshine  bright. 
And  all  beneath  the  sky! 

May  coward  shame  distain  his  name. 

The  wretch  that  dare  not  die ! 


AULD  LANG  SYNE. 

This  is  another  improvement  written  by  Burns  in 
1788.  He  pretended  the  poem  was  not  his,  sending 
it  to  George  Thomson  with  an  expression  of  self- 
congratulation  on  having  been  so  fortunate  as  to 
recover  it  from  an  old  man’s  singing.  Certainly 
the  second  and  third  verses  are  his  own. 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 

And  never  brought  to  mind? 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 

And  auld  lang  syne. 

CHORUS. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear. 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

We’ll  tak  a  cup  o’  kindness  yet 
For  auld  lang  syne  1 

And  surely  ye’ll  be  your  pint-stowp. 

And  surely  I’ll  be  mine, 

And  we’ll  tak  a  cup  o’  kindness  yet 
For  auld  lang  syne! 


OTHER  SONGS 


TT 


We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes, 

And  pou’d  the  gowans  fine, 

But  we’ve  wander’d  monie  a  weary  fit 
Sin’  auld  lang  syne ! 

We  twa  hae  paidl’d  in  the  burn 
Frae  morning  sun  till  dine. 

But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar’d 
Sin’  auld  lang  syne. 

And  there’s  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere. 
And  gie’s  a  hand  o’  thine, 

And  we’ll  tak  a  right  guid-willie  waught 
For  auld  lang  syne ! 


WILLIE  BREW’D  A  PECK  O’  MAUT. 

This  was  written  in  1789  to  celebrate  a  joyous 
meeting  between  Allan  Masterton,  William  Nicol, 
and  Burns,  on  a  visit  Burns  was  paying  to  Nicol. 

O,  Willie  brewed  a  peck  o’  maut. 

And  Rob  and  Allan  cam  to  see. 

Three  blyther  hearts  that  lee-lang  night 
Ye  wad  na  found  in  Christendie. 

CHORUS. 

We  are  na  fou,  we’re  na  that  fou. 

But  just  a  drappie  in  our  e’e! 

The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  daw, 

And  ay  we’ll  taste  the  barley-bree ! 


78 


BURNS 


Here  are  we  met  three  merry  boys, 

Three  merry  boys  I  trow  are  we ; 

And  monie  a  night  we’ve  merry  been. 

And  monie  mae  we  hope  to  be ! 

It  is  the  moon,  I  ken  her  horn. 

That’s  blinkin  in  the  lift  sae  hie : 

She  shines  sae  bright  to  wyle  us  hame. 

But,  by  my  sooth,  she’ll  wait  a  wee  I 

Wha  first  shall  rise  to  gang  awa, 

A  cuckold,  coward  loun  is  he ! 

Wha  first  beside  his  chair  shall  fa’. 

He  is  the  King  amang  us  three ! 

THE  DEIL’S  AWA  WT  TH’  EXCISEMAN. 

This  song  was  written  in  1792,  when  Burns  and 
some  companions  were  watching  a  suspicious  ves¬ 
sel  in  Solway  Firth  and  were  impatiently  waiting  for 
the  return  of  Lewars,  his  brother  exciseman. 

The  Deil  cam  fiddlin  thro’  the  town. 

And  danc’d  awa  wi’  th’  Exciseman, 

And  ilka  wife  cries : — “Auld  Mahoun, 

I  wish  you  luck  o’  the  prize,  man ! 

CHORUS. 

The  Deil’s  awa,  the  Deil’s  awa. 

The  Deil’s  awa  wi’  th’  Exciseman! 

He’s  danc’d  awa,  he’s  danc’d  awa. 

He’s  danc’d  awa  wi’  th’  Exciseman! 


OTHER  SONGS 


79 


“We’ll  mak  our  maut,  and  we’ll  brew  our  drink, 
We’ll  laugh,  sing,  and  rejoice,  man. 

And  monie  braw  thanks  to  the  meikle  black 
Deil, 

That  danc’d  awa  wi’  th’  Exciseman ! 

There’s  threesome  reels,  there’s  foursome  reels. 
There’s  hornpipes  and  strathspeys,  man. 

But  the  ae  best  dance  e’er  cam  to  the  land 
Was  The  Diel’s  Awa  wi’  th’  Exciseman. 


BANNOCKBURN. 

There  was  a  tradition  that  the  air,  “Hey,  tuttie 
taitie”  was  Robert  Bruce’s  march  at  the  battle  of 
Bannockburn,  and,  fired  by  the  progress  of  the 
Erench  revolution  in  1793,  Burns  fitted  the  follow-^ 
ing  words  on  liberty  and  independence  to  that  tune. 
Thomson  did  not  like  the  tune  and  Burns  adapted 
the  song  to  the  air  of  Lewie  Gordon.  Scots  cherish 
this  as  one  of  their  greatest  patriotic  songs,  but 
W ordsworth  thought  any  clever  man  of  talent  might 
have  written  it. 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled, 

Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led. 

Welcome  to  your  gory  bed 
Or  to  victorie ! 

Now’s  the  day,  and  now’s  the  hour: 

See  the  front  o’  battle  lour. 

See  approach  proud  Edward’s  power — 

Chains  and  slaverie ! 


80 


BURNS 


Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave? 

Wha  can  fill  a  coward’s  grave? 

Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave? — 

'  Let  him  turn,  and  flee  I 

Wha  for  Scotland’s  King  and  Law 
Freedom’s  sword  will  strongly  draw. 

Freeman  stand  or  freeman  fa’, 

Let  him  follow  me! 

By  Oppression’s  woes  and  pains. 

By  your  sons  in  servile  chains. 

We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins 

But  they  shall  be  free ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low! 

Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe! 

Liberty’s  in  every  blow ! 

Let  us  do,  or  die! 

CONTENTED  WF  LITTLE. 

Nov.  19,  1794. 

Contented  wi’  little,  and  cantie  wi’  mair. 

Whene’er  I  forgather  wi’  sorrow  and  care, 

I  gie  them  a  skelp  as  they’re  creepin’  alang, 

Wi’  a  cog  o’  gude  swats,  and  an  auld  Scottish  sang. 

I  whyles  claw  the  elbow  o’  troublesome  thought; 
But  man  is  a  soger,  and  life  is  a  faught 
My  mirth  and  gude  humour  are  coin  in  my  pouch. 
And  my  freedom’s  my  lairdship  nae  monarch  dare 
touch. 


OTHER  SONGS 


81 


A  towmond  o’  trouble,  should  that  be  my  fa’, 

A  night  o’  gude  fellowship  sowthers  it  a’ ; 

When  at  the  blythe  end  of  our  journey  at  last, 

Wha  the  deil  ever  thinks  o’  the  road  he  has  past? 

Blind  Chance,  let  her  snapper  and  stoyte  on  her  way, 
Be’t  to  me,  be’t  frae  me,  e’en  let  the  jad  gae : 

Come  ease,  or  come  travail ;  come  pleasure  or  pain. 
My  warst  word  is — ‘Welcome,  and  welcome  again!’ 

THE  MAN’S  THE  GOWD  FOR  A’  THAT. 

Burns  wrote  to  Thomson  (January,  1795)  that 
Aiken  had  said  the  exclusive  themes  for  song-writ¬ 
ing  were  love  and  wine,  but  this  is  at  least  “two 
or  three  pretty  good  prose  thoughts  converted  into 
rhyme.” 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty 
That  hings  his  head,  an’  a’  that? 

The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by — 

W  e  dare  be  poor  for  a’  that ! 

For  a’  that,  an’  a’  that, 

Our  toil ’s  obscure,  an’  a’  that. 

The  rank  is  but  the  guinea’s  stamp. 

The  man’s  the  gowd  for  a’  that. 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hodden  grey,  an’  a’  that? 

Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine — 
A  man’s  a  man,  for  a’  that. 

For  a’  that,  an’  a’  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  an’  a’  that. 


BURNS 


The  honest  man,  tho’  e’er  sae  poor. 

Is  king  o’  men  for  a’  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie  ca’d  ‘a  lord,’ 

What  struts,  an’  stares,  an’  a’  that? 

Tho’  hundreds  worship  at  his  word. 

He’s  but  a  cuif  for  a’  that. 

For  a’  that,  an’  a’  that, 

His  ribband,  star,  an’  a’  that, 

The  man  o’  independent  mind. 

He  looks  an’  laughs  at  a’  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  an’  a’  that! 

But  an  honest  man’s  aboon  his  might— 
Guid  faith,  he  mauna  fa’  that ! 

For  a’  that,  an’  a’  that. 

Their  dignities,  an’  a’  that. 

The  pith  o’  sense  an’  pride  o’  worth 
Are  higher  rank  that  a’  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may 
(As  come  it  will  for  a’  that) 

That  Sense  and  Worth  o’er  a’  the  earth 
Shall  bear  the  gree  an’  a’  that! 

For  a’  that,  an’  a’  that. 

It’s  cornin’  yet  for  a’  that. 

That  man  to  man  the  world  o'er 
Shall  brithers  be  for  a’  that. 


LONGER  POEMS 


HOLY  WILLIES  PRAYER. 

Written  in  1785  as  a  satire  on  the  Auld  Light 
minister  with  whom  Burns’s  friend,  Gavin  Hamil¬ 
ton,  had  been  having  a  controversy. 

O  Thou,  wha  in  the  Heavens  dost  dwell, 

Wha,  as  it  pleases  best  thysel’. 

Sends  ane  to  heaven  and  ten  to  hell, 

A’  for  thy  glory. 

And  no  for  onie  guid  or  ill 

They’ve  done  afore  thee ! 

I  bless  and  praise  thy  matchless  might. 

Whan  thousands  thou  hast  left  in  night. 

That  I  am  here  afore  thy  sight. 

For  gifts  an’  grace, 

A  burnin  an’  a  shinin  light. 

To  a’  this  place. 

What  was  I,  or  my  generation. 

That  I  should  get  sic  exaltation? 

I,  wha  deserve  sic  just  damnation. 

For  broken  laws. 

Five  thousand  years  ’fore  my  creation. 

Thro’  Adam’s  cause. 


When  frae  my  mither’s  womb  I  fell. 
Thou  might  hae  plunged  me  in  hell, 

8d 


84 


BURNS 


To  gnash  my  gums,  to  weep  and  wail, 

In  burnin’  lake. 

Where  damned  devils  roar  and  yell. 
Chain’d  to  a  stake. 

Yet  I  am  here  a  chosen  sample. 

To  show  thy  grace  is  great  and  ample; 

I’m  here  a  pillar  in  thy  temple,  .■  ' 

Strong  as  a  rock, 

A  guide,  a  buckler,  an  example 
To  a’  thy  flock. 

O  Lord,  thou  kens  what  zeal  I  bear, 

When  drinkers  drink,  and  swearers  swear, 
And  singin  there  and  dancin  here, 

Wi’  great  an’  sma’; 

For  I  am  keepit  by  thy  fear, 

Free  frae  them  a’. 

But  yet,  O  Lord !  confess  I  must. 

At  times  I’m  fash’d  wi’  fleshly  lust. 

An’  sometimes  too,  wi’  warldly  trust, 

Vile  self  gets  in; 

But  thou  remembers  we  are  dust, 

Defil’d  in  sin. 

O  Lord !  yestreen,  thou  kens,  wi’  Meg— 
Thy  pardon  I  sincerely  beg. 

Oh !  may  it  ne’er  be  a  livin  plague 
To  my  dishonour. 

An’  I’ll  ne’er  lift  a  lawless  leg 
Again  upon  her. 


LONGER  POEMS 


85 


Besides  I  farther  maun  allow, 

Wi’  Lizzie’s  lass,  three  times  I  trow ; 

But  Lord,  that  Friday  I  was  fou. 

When  I  came  near  her. 

Or  else  thou  kens  thy  servant  true 

Wad  ne’er  hae  steer’d  her. 

May  be  thou  lets  this  fleshly  thorn 
Beset  thy  servant  e’en  and  morn, 

Lest  he  owre  high  and  prcfud  should  turn, 
’Cause  he’s  sae  gifted; 

If  sae,  thy  hand  maun  e’en  be  borne. 
Until  thou  lift  it. 

Lord,  bless  thy  chosen  in  this  place. 

For  here  thou  hast  a  chosen  race; 

But  God  confound  their  stubborn  face. 
And  blast  their  name, 

Wha  bring  thy  elders  to  disgrace. 

An’  public  shame. 

Lord,  mind  Gawn  Hamilton’s  deserts. 

He  drinks,  an’  swears,  an’  plays  at  cartes. 
Yet  has  sae  monie  takin  arts, 

Wi’  grit  an’  sma’, 

Frae  God’s  ain  priest  the  people’s  hearts 
He  steals  awa’. 

An’  whan  we  chasten’d  him  therefore. 
Thou  kens  how  he  bred  sic  a  splore. 


86 


BURNS 


As  set  the  warld  in  a  roar 

O’  laughin  at  us ; 

Curse  thou  his  basket  and  his  store, 

Kail  and  potatoes. 

Lord,  hear  my  earnest  cry  an’  pray’r, 
Against  that  presbyt’ry  o’  Ayr; 

Thy  strong  right  hand,  Lord,  make  it  bare, 
Upo’  their  heads ; 

Lord,  weigh  it  down,  and  dinna  spare, 

For  their  misdeeds. 

O  Lord  my  God,  that  glib-tongu’d  Aiken, 
My  very  heart  and  soul  are  quakin. 

To  think  how  we  stood  sweatin,  shakin, 
An’  p — d  wi’  dread. 

While  he,  wi’  hinging  lips  an’  snakin, 

Held  up  his  head. 

Lord,  in  the  day  of  vengeance  try  him; 
Lord,  visit  them  wha  did  employ  him, 

And  pass  not  in  thy  mercy  by  ’em. 

Nor  hear  their  pray’r : 

But,  for  thy  people’s  sake,  destroy  ’em. 
And  dinna  spare. 

But,  Lord,  remember  me  and  mine 
Wi’  mercies  temp’ral  and  divine. 

That  I  for  gear  and  grace  may  shine, 
Excell’d  by  nane, 

An’  a’  the  glory  shall  be  thine, 

Amen,  Amen. 


LONGER  POEMS 


87 


TO  A  MOUSE 

ON  TURNING  HER  UP  IN  HER  NEST  WITH  THE  PLOUGH, 
NOVEMBER,  1785. 

When  Burns  first  thought  of  publishing  in  1785, 
he  probably  composed  this  and  some  of  the  follow¬ 
ing  poems  as  pure  literary  efforts.  This  and  the 
poem  “To  a  Daisy”  are  considered  Burns’s  two  best 
pastoral  efforts. 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow’rin,  tim’rous  beastie, 

O,  what  a  panic’s  in  thy  breastie ! 

Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty, 

Wi’  bickering  brattle ! 

I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an’  chase  thee, 

Wi’  murd’ring  pattle ! 

Pm  truly  sorry  man’s  dominion 

Has  broken  Nature’s  social  union, 

An’  justifies  that  ill  opinion, 

Which  makes  thee  startle, 

At  me,  thy  poor,  earth-born  companion. 

An’  fellow-mortal ! 

I  doubt  na,  whiles,  but  thou  may  thieve ; 

What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live ! 

A  daimen-icker  in  a  thrave 

’S  a  sma’  request: 

ril  get  a  blessin  wi’  the  lave. 

And  never  miss’t ! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin ! 

Its  silly  wa’s  the  win’s  are  strewin! 


88 


BURNS 


An’  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 

O’  foggage  green! 

An’  bleak  December’s  winds  ensuin, 

Baith  snell  an’  keen! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste. 
An’  weary  winter  comin  fast. 

An’  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast. 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 

Till  crash !  the  cruel  coulter  past. 

Out  thro’  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o’  leaves  an’  stibble, 
Has  cost  thee  monie  a  weary  nibble  1 
Now  thou’s  turn’d  out,  for  a’  thy  trouble. 
But  house  or  hald, 

To  thole  the  winter’s  sleety  dribble. 

An’  cranreuch  cauld  1 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane. 

In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain : 

The  best  laid  schemes  o’  mice  an’  men 
Gang  aft  a-gley. 

An’  lea’e  us  nought  but  grief  an’  pain. 
For  promis’d  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compar’d  wi’  me! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee : 

But,  Och !  I  backward  cast  my  e’e 
On  prospects  drear  1 
An’  forward,  tho’  I  canna  see, 

I  g^uess  an’  fear! 


LONGER  POEMS 


89 


MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN. 

A  DIRGE. 

Written  to  express  a  favorite  sentiment  of  the 
author. 

When  chill  November’s  surly  blast 
Made  fields  and  forests  bare, 

One  ev’ning  as  I  wandered  forth 
Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 

I  spy’d  a  man,  whose  aged  step 
Seem’d  weary,  worn  with  care; 

His  face  was  furrow’d  o’er  with  years, 

And  hoary  was  his  hair. 

Young  stranger,  whither  wand’rest  thou? 

Began  the  rev’rend  Sage; 

Does  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  constrain, 

Or  youthful  pleasure’s  rage? 

Or,  haply,  prest  with  cares  and  woes. 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began 
To  wander  forth,  with  me,  to  mourn 
The  Miseries  of  Man. 

The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors. 
Out-spreading  far  and  wide. 

Where  hundreds  labour  to  support 
A  haughty  lordling’s  pride; 

,  I’ve  seen  yon  weary  winter  sun 
Twice  forty  times  return; 

And  ev’ry  time  has  added  proofs. 

That  Man  was  made  to  mourn. 


90 


BURNS 


O  man!  while  in  thy  early  years, 

How  prodigal  of  time! 

Mis-spending  all  thy  precious  hours, 

Thy  glorious  youthful  prime ! 

Alternate  follies  take  the  sway; 
Licentious  passions  burn; 

Which  tenfold  force  give  nature’s  law. 
That  Man  was  made  to  mourn. 

Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime. 

Or  manhood’s  active  might; 

Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind, 

Supported  is  his  right, 

But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  life. 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn. 

Then  age  and  want.  Oh!  ill-match’d  pair! 
Show  Man  was  made  to  mourn. 

A  few  seem  favourites  of  fate, 

In  pleasure’s  lap  carest; 

Yet,  think  not  all  the  rich  and  great 
Are  likewise  truly  blest. 

But,  Oh !  what  crowds  in  ev’ry  land 
Are  wretched  and  forlorn; 

Thro’  weary  life  this  lesson  learn. 

That  Man  was  made  to  mourn. 

Many  and  sharp  the  num’rous  ills 
Inwoven  with  our  frame! 

More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves. 
Regret,  remorse,  and  shame ! 

And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 
The  smiles  of  love  adorn. 


LONGER  POEMS 


91 


Man’s  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn  I 

See  yonder  poor,  o’erlabour’d  wight, 

So  abject,  mean,  and  vile. 

Who  begs  a  brother  of  the  earth 
To  give  him  leave  to  toil; 

And  see  his  lordly  fellow-worm 
The  poor  petition  spurn, 

Unmindful,  tho’  a  weeping  wife 
And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 

If  I’m  design’d  yon  lordling’s  slave. 

By  nature’s  law  design’d, 

Why  was  an  independent  wish 
E’er  planted  in  my  mind? 

If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to 
His  cruelty,  or  scorn? 

Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  pow’r 
To  make  his  fellow  mourn? 

Yet,  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son, 
Disturb  thy  youthful  breast ; 

This  partial  view  of  human-kind 
Is  surely  not  the  last ! 

The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man. 

Had  never,  sure,  been  born. 

Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 
To  comfort  those  that  mourn ! 

O  Death !  the  poor  man’s  dearest  friend. 
The  kindest  and  the  best ! 


92 


BURNS 


Welcome  the  hour  my  aged  limbs 
Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest ! 

The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  blow, 

From  pomp  and  pleasure  torn; 

But,  Oh !  a  blest  relief  to  those 
That  weary-laden  mourn ! 

THE  COTTER’S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED  TO  ROBERT  AIKEN,  ESQ.,  OF  AYR. 

This,  one  of  the  most  popular  of  Burns’s  compo¬ 
sitions,  describes  his  own  father  and  the  home  of 
his  childhood. 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile. 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  Poor. 

Gray. 

My  lov’d,  my  honour’d,  much  respected  friend! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays : 

With  honest  pride,  I  scorn  each  selfish  end; 

My  dearest  meed,  a  friend’s  esteem  and  praise : 

To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays. 

The  lowly  train  in  life’s  sequester'd  scene; 

The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways; 

What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been; 

Ah !  tho’  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there,  I 
ween. 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi’  angry  sugh; 

The  short’ning  winter  day  is  near  a  close ; 


LONGER  POEMS 


93 


The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh; 

The  black’ning  trains  o’  craws  to  their  repose: 
The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labour  goes, 

This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, 

Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes. 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend. 

And  weary,  o’er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hame- 
ward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view. 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 

Th’  expectant  wee-things,  toddlin,  stacker  through 
To  meet  their  Dad,  wi’  flichterin  noise  an’  glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin  bonilie. 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thrifty  wifie’s  smile, 

The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee. 

Does  a’  his  weary  carking  cares  beguile. 

An’  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  an’  his  toil. 

Belyve,  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in. 

At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun’ ; 

Some  ca’  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin 
A  cannie  errand  to  a  neebor  town : 

Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman-grown. 

In  youthfu’  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e’e. 

Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  shew  a  braw  new  gown. 

Or  deposite  her  sair-won  penny-fee. 

To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

With  joy  unfeign’d  brothers  and  sisters  meet. 

An’  each  for  other’s  weelfare  kindly  spiers : 

The  social  hours,  swift-wing’d,  unnotic’d  fleet ; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears; 


94  BURNS 

The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years; 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 

The  mother,  wi’  her  needle  an’  her  sheers. 

Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel’s  the  new; 

The  father  mixes  a’  wi’  admonition  due. 

Their  master’s  an’  their  mistress’s  command, 

The  younkers  a’  are  warned  to  obey ; 

An’  mind  their  labours  wi’  an  eydent  hand. 

An’  ne’er,  tho’  out  o’  sight,  to  jauk  or  play: 

An’  O !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway. 

An’  mind  your  duty,  duly,  mom  an’  night! 

Lest  in  temptation’s  path  ye  gang  astray. 

Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might: 

They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord 
aright  1’ 

But  hark !  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door. 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o’  the  same. 

Tells  how  a  neebor  lad  cam  o’er  the  moor. 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 

The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny’s  e’e,  and  flush  her  cheek; 

Wi’  heart-struck,  anxious  care,  inquires  his  name. 
While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak; 

Weel  pleas’d  the  mother  hears,  it’s  nae  wild,  worth¬ 
less  rake. 

Wi’  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him  ben; 

A  strappan  youth;  he  takes  the  mother’s  eye; 
Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit’s  no  ill  ta’en; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye. 

The  youngster’s  artless  heart  oi’erflows  wi’  joy. 


LONGER  POEMS 


95 


But  blate  and  laithfu’,  scarce  can  weel  behave ; 

The  mother,  wi’  a  woman’s  wiles,  can  spy 
What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu’  an’  sae  grave ; 

Weel-pleas’d  to  think  her  bairn’s  respected  like  the 
lave. 

0  happy  love !  where  love  like  this  is  found ! 

O  heart-felt  raptures !  bliss  beyond  compare ! 

I’ve  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round. 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare — 

*If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 

'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair. 

In  other’s  arms  br^eathe  out  the  tender  tale. 

Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  ev’ning 
gale. 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart — 

A  wretch !  a  villain !  lost  to  love  and  truth ! 

That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art. 

Betray  sweet  Jenny’s  unsuspecting  youth? 

Curse  on  his  perjur’d  arts!  dissembling  smooth! 

Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exil’d? 

Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth. 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o’er  their  child? 

Then  paints  the  ruin’d  maid,  and  their  distraction 
wild ! 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board. 

The  healsome  parritch,  chief  o’  Scotia’s  food : 

The  soupe  their  only  Hawkie  does  afford, 

That  ’yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  her  cood; 

The  dame  brings  forth  in  complimental  mood, 

To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain’d  kebbuck,  fell. 


96  BURNS 

An’  aft  he’s  prest,  an’  aft  he  ca’s  it  guid; 

The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell, 

How  ’twas  a  towmond  auld,  sin’  lint  was  i’  the  bell. 

The  cheerfu’  supper  done,  wi’  serious  face, 

They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide; 

The  sire  turns  o’er,  wi’  patriarchal  grace. 

The  big  ha’-Bible,  ance  his  father’s  pride : 

His  bonnet  rev’rently  is  laid  aside, 

His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  an’  bare; 

Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide. 

He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care. 

And  ‘Let  us  worship  God !’  he  says,  with  solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  t’  e  noblest  aim: 
Perhaps  Dundee’s  wild  warbling  measures  rise. 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  of  the  name; 

Or  noble  Elgin  beets  the  heav’nward  flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia’s  holy  lays : 

Compar’d  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame ; 

The  tickl’d  ears  no  heartfelt  raptures  raise; 

Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator’s  praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page. 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high; 

Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 
With  Amalek’s  ungracious  progeny; 

Or  how  the  royal  Bard  did  groaning  lie 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven’s  avenging  ire; 

Or  Job’s  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry; 

Or  rapt  Isaiah’s  wild,  seraphic  fire; 

Or  other  holy  Seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 


LONGER  POEMS 


97 


Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed; 

How  He,  who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second  name. 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His  head; 

How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped; 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land: 

How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 

Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand ; 

And  heard  great  Bab’lon’s  doom  pronounc’d  by 
Heaven’s  command. 

Then  kneeling  down,  to  Heaven’s  Eternal  King, 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays : 

Hope  ‘springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing,’ 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days : 

There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear. 

Together  hymning  their  Creator’s  praise. 

In  such  society,  ye^  still  more  dear ; 

While  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eternal 
sphere. 

Compar’d  with  this,  how  poor  Religion’s  pride. 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art. 

When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 
Devotion’s  ev’ry  grace,  except  the  heart ! 

The  Power,  incens’d,  the  pageant  will  desert. 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole ; 

But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 

May  hear,  well  pleas’d,  the  language  of  the  soul; 

And  in  his  Book  of  Life  the  inmates  poor  enrol. 


98 


1 


BURNS 


Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev’ral  way; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest: 

The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  Heav’n  the  warm  request, 

That  He  who  stills  the  raven’s  clam’rous  nest. 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow’ry  pride. 

Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best. 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide; 

But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  pre¬ 
side. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia’s  grandeur  springs. 
That  makes  her  lov’d  at  home,  rever’d  abroad : 

Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 

‘An  honest  man’s  the  noblest  work  of  God’ : 

And  certes,  in  fair  virtue’s  heavenly  road. 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind; 

What  is  a  lordling’s  pomp?  a  cumbrous  load, 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind. 

Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refin’d ! 

O  Scotia !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent! 

Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content! 

And,  Oh,  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 
From  luxury’s  contagion,  weak  and  vile; 

Then,  howe’er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 

A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while. 

And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much -lov’d 
Isle. 


LONGER  POEMS 


99 


O  Thou !  who  pour’d  the  patriotic  tide 

That  stream’d  thro’  Wallace’s  undaunted  heart; 
Who  dar’d  to,  nobly,  stem  tyrannic  pride. 

Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 

('the  patriot’s  God,  peculiarly  thou  art. 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward!) 

O  never,  never,  Scotia’s  realm  desert. 

But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot-bard, 

In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guaro  ! 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEIL. 


An  outgrowth  of  Burns’s  irritation  at  the  Auld 
Light  clergy. 

O  Prince!  O  Chief  of  many  throned  Pow’rs, 
That  led  th’  embattled  Seraphim  to  war — 

Milton. 


O  thou !  whatever  title  suit  thee, 

Auld  Hornie,  Satan,  Nick,  or  Clootie, 
Wha  in  yon  cavern  grim  an’  sootie. 
Clos’d  under  hatches, 
Spairges  about  the  brunstane  cootie. 
To  scaud  poor  wretches ! 

Hear  me,  auld  Hangie,  for  a  wee. 
An’  let  poor  damned  bodies  be ; 

I’m  sure  sma’  pleasure  it  can  gie, 
Ev’n  to  a  deil. 

To  skelp  an’  scaud  poor  dogs  like  me. 
An’  hear  us  squeel  1 


100 


BURNS 


Great  is  thy  pow'r,  an’  great  thy  fame; 

Far  kend  an’  noted  is  thy  name; 

An’  tho’  yon  Iowan  heugh’s  thy  hame, 

Thou  travels  far; 

An’  faith !  thou’s  neither  lag  nor  lame, 

Nor  blate  nor  scaur. 

Whyles,  ranging  like  a  roarin  lion 

For  prey,  a’  holes  an’  corners  tryin; 

Whyles  on  the  strong-wing’d  Tempest  flyin, 
Tirlin  the  kirks ; 

Whyles,  in  the  human  bosom  pryin,  ’ 
Unseen  thou  lurks. 

I’ve  heard  my  reverend  Grannie  say. 

In  lanely  glens  ye  like  to  stray; 

Or  where  auld,  ruin’d  castles,  gray. 

Nod  to  the  moon^ 

Ye  fright  the  nightly  wand’rer’s  way, 

Wi’  eldritch  croon. 

When  twilight  did  my  Grannie  summon. 

To  say  her  pray’rs,  douce,  honest  woman! 

Aft  yont  the  dyke  she’s  heard  you  bummin, 
Wi’  eerie  drone ; 

Or,  rustlin,  thro’  the  boortrees  comin, 

Wi’  heavy  groan. 

Ae  dreary,  windy,  winter  night. 

The  stars  shot  down  wi’  sklentin  light 

Wi’  you,  mysel,  I  gat  a  fright, 

Ayont  the  lough; 

Ye,  like  a  rash-buss,  stood  in  sight, 

Wi’  waving  sugh. 


LONGER  POEMS 


101 


The  cudgel  in  my  nieve  did  shake, 

Each  bristl’d  hair  stood  like  a  stake, 

When  wi’  an  eldritch,  stoor  quaick,  quaick, 
Amang  the  springs, 

Awa  ye  squatter’d  like  a  drake, 

On  whistling  wings. 

Let  warlocks  grim,  an’  wither’d  hags. 

Tell  how  wi’  you  on  ragweed  nags. 

They  skim  the  muirs,  an’  dizzy  crags, 

Wi’  wicked  speed; 

And  in  kirk-yards  renew  their  leagues, 
Owre  howkit  dead. 

Thence,  countra  wives,  wi’  toil  an’  pain. 
May  plunge  an’  plunge  the  kirn  in  vain; 
For,  oh !  the  yellow  treasure’s  taen 
By  witching  skill; 

An’  dawtit,  twal-pint  Hawkie’s  gaen 
As  yell’s  the  Bill. 

Thence,  mystic  knots  mak  great  abuse. 

On  young  Guidmen,  fond,  keen,  an’  crouse ; 
When  the  best  wark-lume  i’  the  house. 

By  cantrip  wit. 

Is  instant  made  no  worth  a  louse. 

Just  at  the  bit. 

When  thowes  dissolve  the  snawy  hoord. 
An’  float  the  jinglin  icy-boord. 

Then,  Water-kelpies  haunt  the  foord. 

By  your  direction. 

An’  nighted  Trav’llers  are  allur’d 
To  their  destruction. 


102 


BURNS 


An’  aft  your  moss-traversing  Spunkies 
Decoy  the  wight  that  late  an’  drunk  is : 
The  bleezin,  curst,  mischievous  monkies 
Delude  his  eyes, 

Till  in  some  miry  slough  he  sunk  is, 
Ne’er  mair  to  rise. 

When  Masons’  mystic  word  an’  grip. 

In  storms  an’  tempests  raise  you  up, 
Some  cock  or  cat  your  rage  maun  stop, 
Or,  strange  to  tell ! 

The  youngest  Brother  ye  wad  whip 
Aff  str aught  to  hell. 

Lang  syne,  in  Eden’s  bonie  yard, 

When  youthfu’  lovers  first  were  pair’d. 
An’  all  the  soul  of  love  they  shar’d, 

The  raptur’d  hour. 

Sweet  on  the  fragrant,  flow’ry  swaird, 

In  shady  bow’r : 

Then  you,  ye  auld,  snick-drawing  dog! 
Ye  came  to  Paradise  incog. 

An’  play’d  on  man  a  cursed  brogfue, 
(Black  be  you  fa!) 

An’  gied  the  infant  warld  a  shog, 

’Maist  ruin’d  a’. 

D’ye  mind  that  day,  when  in  a  bizz, 

Wi’  reekit  duds,  an’  reestit  gizz, 

Ye  did  present  your  smoutie  phiz, 

’Mang  better  folk. 

An’  sklented  on  the  man  of  Uzz 
Your  spitefu’  joke? 


LONGER  POEMS 


105 


An’  how  ye  gat  him  i’  your  thrall, 

An’  brak  him  out  o’  house  an’  hal,’ 
While  scabs  an’  blotches  did  him  gall, 
Wi’  bitter  claw. 

An’  lows  his  ill-tongu’d,  wickjed  Scawl, 
Was  war  St  ava? 

But  a’  your  doings  to  rehearse. 

Your  wily  snares  an’  fechtin  fierce. 

Sin’  that  day  Michael  did  you  pierce, 
Down  to  this  time. 

Wad  ding  a’  Lallan  tongue,  or  Erse, 

In  prose  or  rhyme. 

An’  now,  auld  Cloots,  I  ken  ye’re  thinkin, 
A  certain  Bardie’s  rantin,  dnnkin. 

Some  luckless  hour  will  send  him  linkin. 
To  your  black  pit; 

But,  faith!  he’ll  turn  a  corner  j inkin. 

An’  cheat  you  yet ! 

But,  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben! 

O  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  an’  men’ ! 

Ye  aiblins  might — I  dinna  ken — 

Still  hae  a  stake — 

I’m  wae  to  think  upo’  yon  den, 

Ev’n  for  your  sake! 


IM 


BURNS 


THE  AULD  FARMER’S  NEW  YEAR  MORN¬ 
ING  SALUTATION  TO  HIS  AULD  ' 
MARE,  MAGGIE, 

ON  GIVING  HER  THE  ACCUSTOMED  RIPP  OF  CORN  TO 
HANSEL  IN  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

A  guid  New  Year  I  wish  thee,  Maggie! 

Hae,  there’s  a  ripp  to  thy  auld  baggie : 

Tho’  thou’s  howe-backit,  now,  an’  knaggie. 

I’ve  seen  the  day. 

Thou  could  hae  gane  like  ony  staggie 
Out  owre  the  lay. 

Tho’  now  thou’s  dowie,  stiff,  an’  crazy, 

An’  thy  auld  hide’s  as  white’s  a  daisie. 

I’ve  seen  thee  dappl’t,  sleek  an’  glaizie, 

A  bonie  grey : 

He  should  been  tight  that  daur’t  to  raize  thee, 
Ance  in  a  day. 

Thou  ance  was  i’  the  foremost  rank, 

A  filly  buirdly,  steeve,  an’  swank. 

An’  set  weel  down  a  shapely  shank. 

As  e’er  tread  yird ; 

An’  could  hae  flown  out  owre  a  stank, 

Like  onie  bird. 

It’s  now  some  nine-an’-twenty  year. 

Sin’  thou  was  my  guid-father’s  meere; 

He  gied  me  thee,  o’  tocher  clear. 

An’  fifty  mark; 


LONGER  POEMS 


106 


Tho’  it  was  sma’,  ’twas  weel-won  gear, 

An’  thou  was  stark. 

When  first  I  gaed  to  woo  my  Jenny, 

Ye  then  was  trottin  wi’  your  minnie: 

Tho’  ye  was  trickie,  slee,  an’  funnie, 

Ye  ne’er  was  donsie; 

But  hamely,  tawie,  quiet,  an’  cannie, 

An’  unco  sonsie. 

That  day,  ye  pranc’d  wi’  muckle  pride, 
When  ye  bure  hame  my  bonie  bride; 

An’  sweet  an’  gracefu’  she  did  ride, 

Wi’  maiden  air ! 

Kyle-Stewart  I  could  bragged  wide. 

For  sic  a  pair. 

Tho’  now  ye  dow  but  hoyte  and  hoble, 

An’  wintle  like  a  saumont-coble. 

That  day  ye  was  a  j  inker  noble 
For  heels  an’  win’ ! 

An’  ran  them  till  they  a’  did  wauble, 

Far,  far  behin’. 

When  thou  an’  I  were  young  and  skeigh, 
An’  stable  meals  at  fairs  were  driegh. 

How  thou  wad  prance,  an’  snore,  an’  skriegh 
An’  take  the  road ! 

Town’s-bodies  ran,  and  stood  abeigh, 

An’  ca’t  thee  mad. 

When  thou  was  corn’t,  an’  I  was  mellow, 
We  took  the  road  ay  like  a  swallow; 


106 


BURNS 


At  Brooses  thou  had  ne’er  a  fellow, 

For  pith  an’  speed; 

But  ev’ry  tail  thou  pay’t  them  hollow, 
Whare’er  thou  gaed. 

The  sma’,  droop-rumpl’t,  hunter  cattle. 
Might  aiblins  waur’t  thee  for  a  brattle ; 

But  sax  Scotch  miles  thou  try’t  their  mettle. 
An’  gart  them  whaizle : 

Nae  whip  nor  spur,  but  just  a  wattle 
O’  saugh  or  hazel. 

Thou  was  a  noble  fittie-lan’. 

As  e’er  in  tug  or  tow  was  drawn! 

Aft  thee  an’  I,  in  aught  hours  gaun, 

On  guid  March  weather, 

Hae  turn’d  sax  rood  beside  our  han’. 

For  days  thegither. 

Thou  never  braindg’t,  an’  fetch’t,  an’  fliskit. 
But  thy  auld  tail  thou  wad  hae  whiskit, 

An’  spread  abreed  thy  weel-fill’d  brisket, 
Wi’  pith  an’  pow’r. 

Till  spritty  knowes  wad  rair’t  and  riskit. 
An’  slypet  owre. 

When  frosts  lay  lang,  an’  snaws  were  deep, 
An’  threaten’d  labour  back  to  keep, 

I  gied  thy  cog  a  wee-bit  heap 

Aboon  the  timmer; 

I  ken’d  mv  Maggie  wad  na  sleep 
For  that,  or  simmer. 


LONGER  POEMS 


107 


In  cart  or  car  thou  never  reestit ; 

The  steyest  brae  thou  wad  hae  face’t  it; 

Thou  never  lap,  an’  sten’t,  and  breastit, 
Then  stood  to  blaw; 

But  just  thy  step  a  wee  thing  hastit. 
Thou  snoov’t  awa. 

My  pleugh  is  now  thy  bairn-time  a*: 

Four  gallant  brutes  as  e’er  did  draw; 

Forbye  sax  mae,  I’ve  sell’t  awa, 

That  thou  hast  nurst: 

They  drew  me  thretteen  pund  an’  twa. 
The  vera  warst. 

Monie  a  sair  daurk  we  twa  hae  wrought, 

An’  wi’  the  weary  warl’  fought ! 

An’  monie  an  anxious  day,  I  thought 
We  wad  be  beat ! 

»  Yet  here  to  crazy  age  we’re  brought, 

Wi’  something  yet. 

And  think  na,  my  auld,  trusty  servan', 

That  now  perhaps  thou’s  less  deservin. 

An’  thy  auld  days  may  end  in  starvin. 
For  my  last  fou, 

A  heapit  stimpart.  I’ll  reserve  ane 
Laid  by  for  you. 

We’ve  worn  to  crazy  years  thegither; 

We’ll  toyte  about  wi’  ane  anither ; 


108 


BURNS 


Wi’  tentie  care  I’ll  flit  thy  tether 
To  some  hain’d  rig, 

Whare  ye  may  nobly  rax  your  leather, 

Wi’  sma’  fatigue. 

TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY, 

ON  TURNING  ONE  DOWN  WITH  THE  PLOUGH,  IN 
APRIL,  1786. 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flow’r, 

Thou’s  met  me  in  an  evil  hour; 

For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 
Thy  slender  stem. 

To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow’r. 

Thou  bonie  gem. 

Alas !  it’s  no  thy  neebor  sweet. 

The  bonie  Lark,  companion  meet! 

Bending  thee  ’mang  the  dewy  weet! 

Wi’  spreckl’d  breast. 

When  upward-springing,  blythe,  to  greet 
The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter  biting  north 

Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth; 

Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 
Amid  the  storm. 

Scarce  rear’d  above  the  parent-earth 
Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flow’rs  our  gardens  yield. 

High  shelt’ring  woods  and  wa’s  maun  shield. 


LONGER  POEMS 


1C9 


But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 
O’  clod  or  stane, 

Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad. 

Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread, 

Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 
In  humble  guise ; 

But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed. 

And  low  thou  lies ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  Maid, 

Sweet  flow’ret  of  the  rural  shade! 

By  love’s  simplicity  betray’d. 

And  guileless  trust, 

Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil’d,  is  laid 
Low  i’  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  Bard, 

On  life’s  rough  ocean  luckless  start’d! 
Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 
Of  prudent  lore. 

Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard. 
And  whelm  him  o’er! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  giv’n, 

Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv’n. 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv’n 
To  mis’ry’s  brink, 


110 


BURNS 


Till  wrench’d  of  ev’ry  stay  but  Heav’n, 

He,  ruin’d,  sink! 

Ev’n  thou  who  mourn’st  the  Daisy’s  fate, 

That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date; 

Stern  Ruin’s  ploughshare  drives,  elate. 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 

Till  crush’d  beneath  the  furrow’s  weight. 

Shall  be  thy  doom  1 

THE  TWA  DOGS.— A  TALE. 

.  Written  after  Burns  had  decided  to  publish  his 
first  edition.  It  gives  an  admirable  picture  of  the 
converse  of  the  rich  and  the  poor. 

'Twas  in  that  place  o’  Scotland’s  isle. 

That  bears  the  name  o’  Auld  King  Coil, 

Upon  a  bonie  day  in  June, 

When  wearing  thro’  the  afternoon, 

Twa  dogs,  that  were  na  thrang  at  hame. 
Forgather’d  ance  upon  a  time. 

The  first  I’ll  name,  they  ca’d  him  Caesar, 

Was  keepit  for  his  Honour’s  pleasure: 

His  hair,  his  size,  his  mouth,  his  lugs, 

Shew’d  he  was  nane  o’  Scotland’s  dogs; 

But  whalpit  some  place  far  abroad, 

Whare  sailors  gang  to  fish  for  Cod. 

His  locked,  letter’d,  braw  brass  collar, 

Shew’d  him  the  gentleman  and  scholar ; 

But  tho’  he  was  o’  high  degree. 


LONGER  POEMS 


The  fient  a  pride — nae  pride  had  he ; 

But  wad  hae  spent  an  hour  caressin, 

Ev’n  wi’  a  tinkler-gipsey’s  messin. 

At  kirk  or  market,  mill  or  smiddie, 

Nae  tawted  tyke,  tho’  e’er  sae  duddie, 

But  he  wad  stan’t,  as  glad  to  see  him. 

An’  stroan’t  on  stanes  and  hillocks  wi’  him. 

The  tither  was  a  ploughman’s  collie, 

A  rhyming,  ranting,  raving  billie, 

Wha  for  his  friend  and  comrade  had  him. 

An’  in  his  freaks  had  Luath  ca’d  him. 

After  some  dog  in  Highland  sang, 

Was  made  lang  syne, — Lord  knows  how  lang. 

He  was  a  gash  an’  faithfu’  tyke, 

As  ever  lap  a  sheugh  or  dike. 

His  honest,  sonsie,  baws’nt  face, 

Ay  gat  him  friends  in  ilka  place; 

His  breast  was  white,  his  touzie  back 
Weel  clad  wi’  coat  o’  glossy  black; 

His  gawcie  tail,  wi’  upward  curl. 

Hung  owre  his  hurdies  wi’  a  swirl. 

Nae  doubt  but  they  were  fain  o’  ither, 

An’  unco  pack  an’  thick  thegither ; 
tVi’  social  nose  whyles  snuff’d  and  snowkit; 
Whyles  mice  and  moudieworts  they  howkit; 
iVhyles  scour’d  awa  in  lang  excursion, 

An’  worry’d  ither  in  diversion; 

Until  wi’  daffin  weary  grown, 

Upon  a  knowe  they  sat  them  down. 

An’  there  began  a  lang  digression 
About  the  lords  o’  the  creation. 


112 


BURNS 


C^SAR. 

I’ve  aften  wonder’d,  honest  Luath, 

What  sort  o’  life  poor  dogs  like  you  have; 

An’  when  the  gentry’s  life  I  saw, 

What  way  poor  bodies  liv’d  ava. 

Our  Laird  gets  in  his  racked  rents, 

His  coals,  his  kain,  an’  a’  his  stents : 

He  rises  when  he  likes  himsel ; 

His  flunkies  answer  at  the  bell; 

He  ca’s  his  coach;  he  ca’s  his  horse; 

He  draws  a  bonie,  silken  purse 
As  lang’s  my  tail,  whare  thro’  the  steeks, 

The  yellow  letter’d  Geordie  keeks. 

Frae  morn  to  e’en,  it’s  nought  but  toiling. 

At  baking,  roasting, ‘frying,  boiling; 

An’  tho’  the  gentry  first  are  stechin. 

Yet  ev’n  the  ha’  folk  fill  their  pechan, 

Wi’  sauce,  ragouts,  and  such  like  trashtrie, 
That’s  little  short  o’  downright  wastrie. 

Our  Whipper-in,  wee  blastit  wonner, 

Poor  worthless  elf,  it  eats  a  dinner, 

Better  than  ony  tenant  man 
His  Honour  has  in  a’  the  Ian : 

An’  what  poor  cot-folk  pit  their  painch  in, 

I  own  it’s  past  my  comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth,  Caesar,  whyles  they’re  fash’t  eneugh 
A  cotter  howkin  in  a  sheugh, 

Wi’  dirty  stanes  biggin  a  dyke. 


LONGER  POEMS 


113 


Baring  a  quarry,  and  siclike, 

Himsel,  a  wife,  he  thus  sustains, 

A  smytrie  o’  wee  duddie  weans, 

An’  nought  but  his  han’  darg,  to  keep 
Them  right  an’  tight  in  thack  an’  rape. 

An’  when  they  meet  wi’  sair  disasters. 
Like  loss  o’  health,  or  want  o’  masters. 

Ye  maist  wad  think,  a  wee  touch  langer, 
An’  they  maun  starve  o’  cauld  and  hunger; 
But,  how  it  comes,  I  never  kend  yet. 
They’re  maistly  wonderfu’  contented; 

An’  buirdly  chiels,  an’  clever  hizzies. 

Are  bred  in  sic  a  way-^  as  this.  is. 

C.i:SAR. 

But  then  to  see  how  ye’re  negleckit. 
How  huff’d,  an’  cuff’d,  an’  disrespeckitl 
Lord,  man,  our  gentry  care  as  littfe 
For  delvers,  ditchers,  an’  sic  cattle. 

They  gang  as  saucy  by  poor  folk. 

As  I  wad  by  a  stinking  brock. 

I’ve  notic’d,  on  our  Laird’s  court-day. 

An’  mony  a  time  my  heart’s  been  wae. 
Poor  tenant  bodies,  scant  o’  cash. 

How  they  maun  thole  a  factor’s  snash : 
He’ll  stamp  and  threaten,  curse  an’  swear. 
He’ll  apprehend  them,  poind  their  gear; 
While  they  maun  stan’,  wi’  aspect  humble, 
An’  hear  it  a’,  an’  fear  an’  tremble ! 

I  see  how  folk  live  that  hae  riches  ; 

But  surely  poor  folk  maun  be  wretches. 


114 


They’re  no  s'ae  WfetcheSV  ^ne 
Tho’  constantly  on'  'pO,ot^i|th’s,,  Brinfi;.: ;  ^  ^  , 

They’re  sae  accustoin’d'  '^^^  ..,  • 

The  view  o’t  gies  them' littlfe'' 

Then  chance  an’  fortuhe  lire'' 'sa;fe  guided. 
They’re  ay  in  less  oPmair  'nro^^ 

An’  tho’  fatigu’d  wi‘  close 'et^pldyment,' 

A  blink  o’  rest’s  a  swOet  enyoynterttJ  y  ^ 

The  dearest  comfort  O’  their^livei, 

Their  grushie  weans  ari’”fiithfu*  tvives : 

The  prattling  things  are  jiist  fheif  pride. 

That  sweetens  a’  their  fire-side. 

An’  whyles  twalpennie:  worth  o’  nappy 
Can  mak  the  bodies  unco  happy; 

They  lay  aside  their  private '  cares,  ‘ 

To  mind  the  Kirk  and  State  affairs; 

They’ll  talk  o’  patronage  an’  priests, 

Wi’  kindling  fury  i’  their  breasts. 

Or  tell  what  new  taxation’s  comin. 

An’  ferlie  at  the  folk  in  Lon’on. 

As  bleak-fac’d  Hallowmass  returns, 

They  get  the  jovial,  ranting  kirns, 

■When  rural  life,  o’  ev’ry  sUtion, 

Unite  in  common  recreation ; 

Love  blinks.  Wit  slaps,  an’  social  Mirth 
Forgets  there’s  Care  upo’  the  earth. 

That  merry  day  the  year  begins. 

They  bar  the  door  on  frosty  winds; 

The  nappy  reeks  wi’  mantling  ream. 

An’  sheds  a  heart-inspiring  steam; 


LONGER  POEMS 


115 


The  luntin  pipe,  ap’  sneechin  mill,- 
Are  haunded  round  wi’  right  guid  will ;  , 
The  cantie  auld  folks  crackin  crouse. 

The  young  anes  ranting  thro’  the  house,— 
My  heart  has  been  sae  fain  to  see  them. 
That  I  for  joy  hae  barket  wi’  them.' 

Still  it's  owre  true  that  ye  hae  said/^i’*  ■ 
Sic  game  is  now  ow.re  aften  play’d. 
There’s  monie  a  creditable  stock 
O’  decent,  honest,  fawsont  folk. 

Are  riven  out  baith  root  an’, /branch. 

Some  rascal’s  pridefu’,.  greed  to  quench, 
Wha  thinks  ;to  knit  himsel  the  faster 
In  favour  wi’  some  gentle  Master, 

Wha,  aiblins,  thrang  a  parliamentin. 

For  Britain’s  guid  his  saul  indentin — 

C^SAR. 

Haith,  lad,  ye  little  ken  about  it; 

For  Britain’s  guid !  guid  faith !  I  doubt  it. 
Say  rather,  gaun  as  Premiers  lead  him. 
An’  saying  oys-or  no’s  they  bid  him: 

At  operas  ah’  plays  parading, 

Mortgaging,  gambling,  masquerading; 

Or  maybe,  in  a  frolic  daft, 

To  Hague  or  Calais  taks  a  waft. 

To  make  a  tour,  an’  tak  a  whirl, 

To  learn  bon  ton  an’  see  the  worl’. 

There,  at  Vienna  or  Versailles, 

He  rives  his  father’s  auld  entails ; 

Or  by  Madrid  he  taks  the  rout. 

To  thrum  guitars,  an’  fecht  wi’  nowt; 


116 


BURNS 


Or  down  Italian  vista  startles, 

Whore-hunting  amang  groves  o’  myrtles; 
Then  bouses  drumly  German  water, 

To  mak  himsel  look  fair  and  fatter. 

An’  clear  the  consequential  sorrows. 
Love-gifts  of  Carnival  signoras. 

For  Britain’s  guid !  for  her  destruction ! 

Wi’  dissipation,  feud,  an’  faction! 

LUATH. 

Hech,  man  1  dear  sirs !  is  that  the  gate 
They  waste  sae  mony  a  braw  estate? 

Are  we  sae  foughten  an’  harass’d 
For  gear  to  gang  that  gate  at  last? 

O  would  they  stay  aback  frae  courts, 

An’  please  themsels  wi’  contra  sports. 

It  wad  for  ev’ry  ane  be  better. 

The  Laird,  the  Tenant,  an’  the  Cotter! 

For  thae  frank,  rantin,  ramblin  billies, 

Fient  haet  o’  them’s  ill-hearted  fellows; 
Except  for  breaking  o’  their  timmer. 

Or  speaking  lightly  o’  their  limmer. 

Or  shootin  o’  a  hare  or  moor-cock. 

The  ne’er-a-bit  they’re  ill  to  poor  folk. 

But  will  ye  tell  me.  Master  Caesar, 

Sure  great  folk’s  life  a  life  o’  pleasure? 

Nae  cauld  nor  hunger  e’er  can  steer  them. 
The  vera  thought  o’t  need  na  fear  them. 

C^SAR. 

Lord,  man,  were  ye  but  whyles  whare  I  am 
The  gentles '  ye  wad  ne’er?  envy  ’em. 


LONGER  POEMS 


117 


It’s  true,  they  need  na  starve  or  sweat, 

Thro’  winter’s  cauld,  or  simmer’s  heat; 
They’ve  nae  sair  wark  to  craze  their  banes, 
An’  fill  auld  age  wi’  grips  an’  granes; 

But  human  bodies  are  sic  fools. 

For  a’  their  colleges  and  schools. 

That  when  nae  real  ills  perplex  them, 

They  mak  enow  themsels  to  vex  them; 

An’  ay  the  less  they  hae  to  sturt  them. 

In  like  proportion,  less  will  hurt  them. 

A  country  fellow  at  the  pleugh. 

His  acre’s  till’d,  he’s  right  eneugh; 

A  country  girl  at  her  wheel. 

Her  dizzen’s  done,  she’s  unco  weel: 

But  Gentlemen,  an’  Ladies  warst, 

Wi’  ev’n  down  want  o’  wark  are  curst. 

They  loiter,  lounging,  lank,  an’  lazy; 

Tho’  deil  haet  ails  them,  yet  uneasy: 

Their  days  insipid,  dull,  an’  tasteless; 

Their  nights  unquiet,  lang,  an’  restless ; 

An’  ev’n  their  sports,  their  balls  an’  races. 
Their  galloping  thro’  public  places. 

There’s  sic  parade,  sic  pomp,  an’  art, 

The  joy  can  scarcely  reach  the  heart. 

The  men  cast  out  in  party-matches. 

Then  sowther  a’  in  deep  debauches. 

Ae  night,  they’re  mad  wi’  drink  an’  whoring, 
Niest  day  their  life  is  past  enduring. 

The  Ladies  arm-in-arm  in  clusters. 

As  great  an’  gracious  a’  as  sisters ; 

But  hear  their  absent  thoughts  o’  ither. 


118  .BURNS 

They’re  a’  run  deils  an’  jads  thegither.  , 

Whyles,  owre  the  wee  bit  cup  and,  platie, 

They  sip  the  scandal  potion  pretty;  p 

Or  lee-lang  nights,  wi’  crabbit  leuks,  ^  . 

Pore  ower  the  devil’s  pictur’d  beuks  ;  ^  j 

Stake  on  a  chance  a  farmer’s  stackyard, 

An’  cheat  like  pny  unhang’d  blackguard. 

There’s  some  exceptions,  man  an”  woman ; 

But  this  is  Gentry’s  Hfe  in  common. 

*  I 

'  ■  -■  V  '  ^  ^  ‘  - 

By  this,  the  sun  was  out  o’  sight, 

An’  darker  gloamin  brought  the  night: 

The  bum-clock  humm’d  wi’  lazy  drone,  . 
The  kye  stood  rowtin  i’  the  loan; 

When  up  they,  gat,  an’  shook  their  lugs,  , 
Rejoic’d  they  were  na-  tnen  hut  ,  dogs;  -•  ,  , 

An’  each., took  af¥  his  several  way/  .  ..  , 
Resolv’d  to  meet ,  some;  ither  day.  ^ 

addrTss  to  the  unco  quid,  or  the 

•  RIGIDLY  RIGHTEOUS.,  ,  p 

My  son,  these  maxims  make  a  rule,  ' 

And  lump  them  aye  thegither; 

The  'Rigid  Righteous  is  a  fool. 

The  Rigid  Wise  anither: 

The  cleanest  corn  that  e’er  ivas  dig ht^  ' 
May  hae  some  pyles  o’  caff  in; 

So  ne’er  a  fellow-crCature  slight 
For  random  fits  o’  daffin. 

Solomon.— Eccles.  vii.  16. 


LONGER  POEMS 


lid 


O  ye  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel, 

Sae  pious  and  sae  holy, 

Ye’ve  nought  to  do  but  mark  and  tell 
Your  Neebpur’s  fauts  and  folly! 
,Whase  life  is  like  a  weel-gaun  mill, 

'  Supply’d  wi’  store  o’  water. 

The  heapet  happer’s  ebbing  still. 

And  still  the  clap  plays  clatter. 

Hear  me,  ye  venerable  Core, 

As  counsel  for  poor  mortals. 

That  frequent  pass  douce  Wisdom’s  door, 
For  glaikit  Folly’s  portals; 

I,  for  their  thoughtless,  careless  sakes. 
Would  here  propone  defences. 

Their  donsie  tricks,  their  black  mistakes. 
Their  failings  and  mischances. 

Ye  see  your  state  wi’  theirs  compar’d. 

And  shudder  at  the  niffer. 

But  past  a  moment’s  fair  regard. 

What  maks  the  mighty  differ ; 

Discount  what  scant  occasion  gave 
That  purity  ye  pride  in. 

And  (what’s  aft  mair  than  a’  the  lave) 
Your  better  art  o’  hiding. 

Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse 
Gies  now  and  then  a  wallop. 

What  raging  must  his  veins  convulse, 
That  still  eternal  gallop: 

Wi’  wind  and  tide  fair  i’  your  tail, 

Right  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way; 


120 


BURNS 


But  in  the  teeth  o’  baith  to  sail. 

It  maks  an  unco  leeway. 

See  Social  life  and  Glee  sit  down. 

All  joyous  and  unthinking, 

Till,  quite  transmugrify’d,  they’re  growa 
Debauchery  and  Drinking: 

O  would  they  stay  to  calculate 
Th’  eternal  consequences; 

Or  your  more  dreadful  hell  to  state. 
Damnation  of  expenses! 

Ye  high,  exalted,  virtuous  Dames, 

Ty’d  up  in  godly  laces. 

Before  ye  gie  poor  Frailty  names. 
Suppose  a  change  o’  cases; 

A  dear  lov’d  lad,  convenience  snug, 

A  treacherous  inclination — 

But,  let  me  whisper  i’  your  lug. 

Ye’re  aiblins  nae  temptation. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man. 

Still  gentler  sister  Woman; 

Tho’  they  may  gang  a  kenning  wrang. 

To  step  aside  is  human: 

One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  IV hy  they  do  it; 

And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark. 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

Who  made  the  heart,  ’tis  He  alone 
Decidedly  can  try  us. 

He  knows  each  chord  its  various  tone, 
Each  spring  its  various  bias: 


LONGER  POEMS 


121 


Then  at  the  balance  let’s  be  mute. 

We  never  can  adjust  it; 

What’s  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what's  resisted. 

TAM  O’  SHANTER. 

Considered  by  Scott  one  of  the  best  tales  ever 
written.  It  was  written  one  summer’s  day  in  1790, 
and  is  the  only  longer  poem  of  the  poet’s  later  years. 

A  TALE. 

Of  Brownyis  and  of  Bogilis  full  is  this  Buke. 

Gawin  Douglas. 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 

And  drouthy  neebors,  neebors  meet. 

As  market-days  are  bearing  late. 

An’  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate; 

While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy. 

And  getting  fou  and  unco  happy. 

We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles. 

The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  styles. 

That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 

Whare  sits  our  sulky  sullen  dame. 

Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm. 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tam  o’  Shanter, 

As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter, 

(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne’er  a  town  surpasses. 

For  honest  men  and  bonie  lasses.) 

O  Tam!  hadst  thou  but  been  sae  wise. 


122  BURNS 

As  ta’en  thy  ain  wife  KatU'S  advice !  ;  ' 

She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  wast  a  skellutn, 

A  blethferinjg,  blustering,  drunken  blellum; 
That  frae  Noveihber  till 'October, 

Ae  market-day  thou  was  na  sober ; 

That  ilka  melder,  “wi’  the  miller. 

Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller; 

That ‘ev’ry  naig  was  ca’d  a  shoe  on. 

The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on; 

That  at  the  Lord’s  house,  ev’n  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi’  Kirton  Jean  till  Monday. 

She  prophesy’d  that,  late  or  soon, 

Thou  would  be  found  deep  drown’d  in  Doon; 
Or  catch’d  wi’  warlocks  in  the  mirk. 

By  Alloway’s  auld  haunted  kirk, 

Ah,  gentle  dames!  it  gars  me  greet, 

To  think  how  monie  counsels  sweet. 

How  mony  lengthen’d,  sage  advices. 

The  husband  Trae  the  wife  despises! 

But  to  our  tale;  Ae  market  night, 

Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right; 

Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 

Wi’  reamifi^  swats,  that  drank  divinely; 

And  at  his  elbow,  Souter  Johnny, 

His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony ; 

Tam  lo’ed  him  like  a  vera  brither; 

They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 

The  night  drave  on  wi’  sangs  and  clatter; 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better ; 

The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious, 

Wi’  favours,  secret,  sweet,  and  precious: 
The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories; 


LONGER  POEMS 


123 


The  landlord’s  laugh  was  ready  chorus: 

The  storm  without  might  rair  aiid  rustle* 

Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 

E’en  drown’d  himsel’  amang  the  nappy: 

As  be<“.s  flee  hame  wi’  lades  o’  tfea.sure, 

The  minutes  wing’d  their  way  wi’  pleasure; 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tain  was  glorious. 
O’er,  a’,  the  ills  o’  life  victorious  ! 

But  pleasures  are'  like  poppies  s,pread. 

You  seize  the  flow’r,  its  bloom  is  shed 
Or  like  the  snow-falls  in  the  river, 

A  moment  white— then  melts  forever;  - 
Or  like  the  borealis  race,  , 

That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place;  • 
Or  like  th'e  rainbow’s  lovely. form  , 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. — ;■ 
Nae  man  can, tether  time  or  tide; —  , 

The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride;  , 

That  hour,  o’  night’s  black  arch  the  key-stahe. 
That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in;  ; 
And -sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in.  , 

As  rie*er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in.  , 

The  wind  blew  as  ’twad  blawn  its  last. 

The  rattling  show’rs  rose  oh  the  blast ; 

The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow’d;  . 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang,  the  thunder  bellow’d : 
That  night,  a  child  might  understand,  , 
The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel  mounted  on  his  grey  mare,  Meg, 

A  better  never  lifted  leg, 

Tam  skelpit  on  thro’  dub  and  mire. 


124 


BURNS 


Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire; 

‘  Whiles  holding  fast  his  gude  blue  bonnet; 
Whiles  crooning  o’er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet 
Whiles  glow’ring  round  wi’  prudent  cares, 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 

Whare  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry, — 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Whare  in  the  snaw,  the  chapman  smoor’d; 
And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane, 

Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak’s  neck-bane; 
And  thro’  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 
Whare  hunters  fand  the  murder’d  bairn; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 

Whare  Mungo’s  mither  hang’d  hersel. — 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods; 

The  doubling  storm  roars  thro’  the  woods; 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole; 

Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll: 
When,  glimmering  thro’  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seem’d  in  a  bleeze; 

Thro’  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing; 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. — 
Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn ! 

What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn! 
Wi’  tippenny,  we  fear  nae  evil; 

Wi’  usquebae,  we’ll  face  the  devil ! — 

The  swats  sae  ream’d  in  Tammie’s  noddle, 
Fair  play,  he  car’d  na  deils  a  boddle. 

But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonish’d. 

Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish’d, 

"<She  ventured  forward  on  the  light ; 


LONGER  POEMS 


125 


And,  vow!  Tam  saw  an  unco  sight! 
Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance; 

Nae  cotillion  brent  new  frae  France, 

But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels. 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 

A  winnock-bunker  in  the  east. 

There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o’  beast; 

A  towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large. 

To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge: 

He  screw’d  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl. 
Till  roof  and  rafters  a’  did  dirl. — 

Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses, 

That  shaw’d  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses; 
And  by  some  devlish  cantraip  slight 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light, — 

By  which  heroic  Tam  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 

A  murderer’s  banes  in  gibbet  aims; 

Twa  spang-lang,  wee,  unchristen’d  bairns; 
A  thief,  new-cutted  frae  the  rape, 

Wi’  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape; 

Five  tomahawks,  wi’  blude  red  rusted; 

Five  scymitars,  wi’  murder  crusted ; 

A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled; 

A  knife,  a  father’s  throat  had  mangled. 
Whom  his  ain  son  o’  life  bereft. 

The  grey  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft; 

Wi’  mair  o’  horrible  and  awfu’. 

Which  ev’n  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu’. 

As  Tammie  glowr’d,  amaz’d,  and  curious. 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious : 
The*piper  loud  and  louder  blew; 


126 


BURNS 


The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew;- 
They  reel’d,  they  set,  they  cross’d,  they  cleekit, 
Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit, 

And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark^  ^ 

And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark! 

Now  Tam,  O  Tam!  had  thae  been  queans, 
A’  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens; 

Their  sarks,  instead  o’  creeshie  flannen,-  • 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen  hunder  iinnen !  >  ; 
Thir  brfeeks  o’  mine,  my  only  pair. 

That  ance  were  plush,  o’  gude  blue  hair*  < 
I  wad  hae  gi’en  them  off  my  hurdles, 

For  ae  blink  o’  the  bonie  burdies  1 

But  wither’d  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Ringwooddie  hags  wad  spean  a  foal, 

Lowping  and  flinging  on  a  crummock, 

I  wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tam  kend  what  was  what  fu’'brawlie. 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  walie, 
That  night  enlisted  in  the  core, 

(Lang  after  kend  on  Car  rick  shore; 

For  monie  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot. 

And  perish’d  monie  a  bonie  boat. 

And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear, 

And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear), 

Her  cutty  sark,  o’  Paisley  harn. 

That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn. 

In  longitude  tho’  sorely  scanty. 

It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie. — 

Ah !  little  kend  thy  reverend  grannie. 

That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nanie, 

Wi’  twa  pund  Scots  (’twas  a’  her  riches). 


LONGER  POEMS 


127 


Wad  ever  grac’d  a  dance  of  witches ! 

But  here  my  muse  her  wing  maun  cour ; 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  pow’r; 

To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang, 

(A  souple  jade  she  was,  and  strang), 

And  how  Tam  stood,  like  ane  bewitch’d. 
And  thought  his  very  een  enrich’d; 

Even  Satan  glower’d,  and  fidg’d  fu’  fain. 
And  botch’d  and  blew  wi’  might  and  main: 
Tin  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither, 

Tam  tint  his  reason  a’  thegither, 

And  roars  out,  “Weel  done,  Cutty-sark!” 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark : 

And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied. 

When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi’  angry  fyke. 

When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke ; 
As  open  pussie’s  mortal  foes, 

When,  pop!  she  starts  before  their  nose; 

As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 

When,  “Catch  the  thief !’’  resounds  aloud ; 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 

Wi’  monie  an  eldritch  skreech  and  hollow. 

Ah,  Tam!  ah,  Tam!  thou’ll  get  thy  fairin! 
In  hell  thy’ll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin ! 

In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin ! 

Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu’  woman ! 

Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 

And  win  the  key-stane  of  the  brig: 

There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 

A  running  stream  they  darena  cross. 

But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make. 


128 


BURNS 


The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake! 

For  Nanie,  far  before  the  rest, 

Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 

And  flew  at  Tam  wi’  furious  ettle; 

But  little  wist  she  Maggie’s  mettle — 

Ae  spring  brought  off  her  master  hale, 
But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail: 

The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rump. 

And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o’  truth  shall  read, 
Ilk  man  and  mother’s  son,  take  heed; 
Whene’er  to  drink  you  are  inclin’d. 

Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind. 

Think,  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o’er  dear. 
Remember  Tam  o’  Shanter’s  mare. 


RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 
AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

Green 

198 


